


Skagosi

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff goddammit, I think I am addicted to Rickeen, Rickeen, Romance, Slow burn as far as Jillypups is concerned and that's not gonna be that slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 102,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unexpectedly, Targaryen forces sweep into Stannis's camp, taking him prisoner. Ser Davos begs one thing of Rickon Stark: take the displaced princess to safety, to the one place no one will look.</p><p>I have aged everyone up by seven years; Rickon was 10 when he left with Osha, Shireen was 16, etc.</p><p>Since I'm bringing in other POVs I'm gonna leave up the other pairings. They are going to feature for more prominently than I had originally planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I can't help myself. Here's another Rickon/Shireen fic. Please let me know what you think. It was hard to start but I got into the flow of it. I hope it doesn't suck and that you all don't hate me!

He slips silently into the princess’s tent where the chaos of the invasion has not yet seeped, hand on the hilt of his sword at his right hip, so the sheathed blade won’t knock into anything, and pauses a moment, looking down on her sleeping form. His heart is racing but his mind is calm, and he has years on the battlefield to thank for that. Exhaling a breath as he squats down beside her raised pallet, a mound of furs even this far south in the Riverlands, he raises a hand to wake her, and then thinks twice of it, pulling off his leather glove with his teeth, dropping it in his lap, before pressing his naked palm to her mouth so she cannot scream.

This is the first time he has touched her, though he has fought for her father for seven years, since he was a boy of 13, has orbited around her on the periphery and has even learned to read, haltingly, from her. The roughness of the greyscale surprises him, and he moves his thumb against it out of reflexive curiosity. He soon forgets about it entirely when a sharp inhale fills his ears and a gust of breath moistens the skin of his palm, when her eyes fly open and stare in terror up at him.

“Say not a word or my hand stays where it is,” he whispers, trying to stay quiet himself. “Get dressed and pack lightly, and hurry, or we both die.” He clenches his jaw but she is quaking with fear, so he relaxes just slightly, attempts to remove some menace from his expression. Her fingers curl around his wrist, digging into his skin. “ _Please_ let me do as Ser Davos has instructed me.”

He knew the mention of the King’s Hand would do it, and so she nods, eyes fearful, and stays quiet when Rickon cautiously, slowly, removes his hand from her mouth, her fingers falling away from his wrist as he withdraws. She sits up so swiftly he falls back on his arse, but he’s up on his feet soon enough with a curse under his breath, watching as she steps into a gown, pulling it up over her night shift. The shift rides up her thighs and she yanks down on it, glancing warily to him, and in a lucky moment, he remembers his courtesy and drops his eyes.  She’s in it soon enough and he nods in approval at her efficiency, but when she presents her back to him, drawing her hair over a shoulder, he stares, mystified. She looks back at him and flicks her eyebrows up, expectant.

“ _What?”_ he whispers.

“It laces up the back,” she hisses at him. His jaw drops; he cannot believe this, not now, in this moment of utmost urgency. His temper splinters and for the second time he touches her, gripping the cap of her shoulder and pulling her round to face him. He lowers his head towards her with a grunt of impatience.

“There is no time. I will truss you up once we’re away from here, _princess,_ ” he snaps, and she huffs in disbelief, shoving boots on her stocking feet instead of demanding he tie her into her dress. He finds and tosses to her an empty saddlebag that she catches midair. She shoves in some books and packs another dress and, with a withering glare at him, a wad of pale, silken looking garments that, he realizes with a flush to his cheeks, must be her smallclothes. He sighs, closes his eyes briefly _._ “And a few cloaks, the warmest you’ve got. We’re going to the North.”

 She opens her mouth to protest but then he pushes aside the flap to her tent, stepping to the side so that she might see, on the edge of the encampment, the skirmish. There are the faintest sounds of swords slicing at each other, the shouts of alarmed men and the groans of injured ones. Horror washes over her expression, clear as day even in the darkness of her tent, and he feels a pang of guilt for being so rough, especially considering the news he has not yet shared. Shireen quickly jams more clothing in her bag and rises from her pallet, gathering a fur after a second thought to take with her.

“What has happened?” She breathes, stepping through the opening he provides for her, past him in close proximity, the crown of her head just brushing against his bare hand. She is draped with a dark wool cloak and her hair is a loose and wild fall of midnight, so much so that she nearly disappears into the still quiet side of camp when she walks away from him.

“Targaryen invasion,” he says. “Daenerys has taken King’s Landing, has wiped out the Lannisters, and her men ride ahead of her. Your father and Davos went to the front lines, and your father has been taken prisoner. I’m sorry,” he says softly, dropping the flap and stepping through after her. He comes to stand just behind her, and so is able to hear her breath get stuck in her throat, warbling out eventually as a sob. “Please, princess,” he whispers, bowing his head. “I have two horses saddled just behind your tent, we _must_ go. I have my orders.”

“Father,” she whispers, but she goes with him, and he presses a hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her in the direction of their mounts. She looks back over her shoulder the entire time until they are beside the horses, and he swiftly buckles her bag before lifting her wordlessly into the saddle. She is light as a songbird, small thing that she is, and he has no trouble; he gets no one from her, either, save a small _Oh_ of surprise at being so unceremoniously deposited on her horse. Rickon moves fast and mounts his own beast before wheeling around and grabbing her reins, she is so captivated by the noises and activity that are spreading, like wildfire, towards them. At his yank of the reins she swivels her head and stares at him. Even in the low light of the moon overhead and the distant fires he sees the panic and fear in her widened eyes.

“Come, my lady,” he says, kicking his horse to action, pulling hers along until she snaps to it and urges her courser on her own accord. “Quickly now,” he tosses over his shoulder, dropping her reins and letting his horse take the bit. The gray horse’s gait quickens and he hunkers over the neck, face close to the wind whip of mane. Shaggydog comes streaking past them, earning a startled snort from Rickon’s horse. He glances back again and sees that she’s close behind him, mirroring him in the saddle, and, satisfied, Rickon heads towards one of the only place he remembers as home.

 

Shireen rides numbly behind him, her mind a roil of confusion and fear, disbelief and terror. She does not even know the time of night, how long she was sleeping before Rickon Stark woke her as if he had wicked intentions instead of pure. _Ser Davos told him to come get me,_ she remembers, and his unknown whereabouts make her want to cry. It is then that she realizes she already is; that her face is chilled to the bone, even beneath the greyscale, as the wind dries the cold tears that fall as if of their own volition.

He leads them on for what feels like hours, his massive direwolf coming and going from their trail; she keeps looking to the east, waiting for dawn, and when finally that sliver of horizon turns gray, he slows them to a walk. The lightening sky makes it possible for her to get a better look at where they are, and she feels a fool to realize they’ve not been on the kingsroad at all, but that he has been leading them through the plains of the northern Riverlands as sure in the dark as if he were one of the gods that made the land. The terrain is getting mossier, and as they plod on she can hear the suck of wet earth pulling on their horses hooves. Rickon twists in his saddle and she can see him almost clearly. He is a tangle of windblown hair, his dark scruff paling his skin, though the exertion of the ride may do that as well.

“We have to ride the causeway through the Neck,” he says, gesturing to the east where the road must lie. She feels discombobulated and exhausted so she merely nods, blinking a few times to try and bring some alertness back to her eyes. He frowns and walks his horse in a circle to approach her. “Are you all right?”

“To be perfectly honest, I am not sure. I am just so tired,” she admits, and he sighs, nodding.

“I know it’s been hard riding but there is no shelter here, no safe place to bed down, and now that we approach the Neck, we are forced to continue. We’ll rest once we’re to Greywater; I’ve a friend there and I know she will guide us in. In the meantime, come, ride abreast with me on the road. I’ll try to keep you awake.” He gives her a rare smile and nods with his head towards the east. Even as the day yawns open, the temperatures steadily drop the more north they travel. Rickon stops them once they get to the road, and his wolf appears out of thin air, panting from the exertion.

Wordlessly once more he reaches for her waist and grasps her, pulling her down towards the road. She swings a leg back over her horse to go with him, and braces her hands on his shoulders until her feet touch the hard, cold ground of the kingsroad. He releases her yet remains in within arm’s reach.

“I know you’re cold, and we’re far away enough to take a moment. I would tie you more securely in your dress, my lady, if you wish it.” She is a woman of 26 and yet she turns swiftly to hide the riot of blush that heats her cheeks, as if she were a maid of 15.

“Yes, thank you. The wind bites, I will admit.” With a light touch, he lifts her cloak and drapes it over her shoulder so that he might see what he’s doing. “How did this come to pass?” She asks as a distraction, gazing around at the thickening landscape of swamp and mire as he tugs on her laces.  Snow is falling now, as they approach the land of winter and the pure whiteness of it clashes terrifically with their murky surroundings.

“I told you, the Targaryen armies,” he begins, but she shakes her head no, and he falls silent, presumably waiting for clarification.

“I mean you, coming for me, to whisk me away to gods know where. Why you?”

“Ah,” he says, and there is something sardonic to his tone that makes her feel badly for asking in such a blunt way. He tugs a lace extra-sharp and she is pulled back on her weak legs, staggering slightly from the pressure. His fingers still momentarily, and when he resumes his administrations, he is once more gentle. “I suppose I am not the knight a princess would expect.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, at all, my lord,” she starts, and here he laughs. Shireen wonders if she has ever heard him laugh before, so serious and taciturn he is, even when she went over his letters with him over the years.

“Please, I am no lord, though you are indeed ‘my lady,’” he says with another chuckle. “But I suppose that leads us right to the answer. Here, do I knot them or tie them up in some other way?”

“A tied bow, if you would, so it will be easier to undo,” She says, and he sighs with a grunt deep in his chest.

“I’m not very good at bows,” he mutters, and she laughs. She talks him through the process, going so far as to wiggle her fingers at the top of her head as an illustration of rabbit ears, and by the time he ties her up, they are both laughing. _We are delirious with fatigue,_ she thinks, and then he is lifting her cloak from where he draped it and letting it fall back across both shoulders.

“You were saying, you are no lord?” She asks, turning around to face him. She must tilt her head back to gaze at him as he has not yet removed himself from within her space. He nods to her question and still remains, pinning her even more so between his body and her horse’s when he lifts a hand and rummages in her saddlebag.

“Indeed I am not. For someone who struggled to teach me to read, you should know that,” he smiles, pulling out the fur she took from her bed and draping it over her shoulders. She is touched by this consideration, and smiles shyly at him, leaning against her horse to listen to him. “Your father’s Hand asked it of me because he knows I come from Skagos, and it is to that place he wanted me to take you. Not a soul will think to search there for a displaced Baratheon princess,” he says with a faint smile.

Her knees nearly buckle when he speaks the name of that place, steeped as it is in myth and cautionary tale. She has heard that is an island of rapers and murderers, disloyal bannermen and cannibals. Her terror must be plain as day on her face because he laughs, shaking his head.

“It is not so bad as all that, princess. I do not feast on the flesh of men or raid villages for their women, and I was there for three years before Ser Davos found me.”

“I assumed Winterfell when you said the North,” she whispers, still mortified despite his assurances. He shakes his head again.

“No one in all of Westeros but the Manderlys knew I was on Skagos, save the Skagosi themselves. To this day still no one knows where the surviving male Stark was for those three years. But as I _am_ the last male Stark, if it’s discovered that it was I who took you from Daenerys’s clutches, Winterfell will be the first place they’ll go. We ride for White Harbor, my lady, and then we sail, horses in tow, to Skagos, your new home until Stannis or Davos come for you.”

Shireen chuckles weakly and wonders if she will faint.

 

Rickon excuses himself and leaves the princess behind to stretch her legs and to process through this new information, grabbing a few skins for water and heading down the bank towards the marsh. The water is deliciously cold, and it makes him think of Skagos, of Osha, of the salt spray that rides the wind even dozens of miles inland. He fills a heavy skin for the horses and one each for Shireen and himself and heads back, walking slower now to avoid sloshing the cold water on his breeches.

He finds her sleeping against the flank of Shaggydog, curled up like a farm girl against a sheepdog, though she is a princess and _that_ is a direwolf; his direwolf. He nearly drops the skins as he slowly circles them. How she got Shaggy to lie down so much as look twice at her he’ll never know. But she is there, her face burrowed against the fur of his shoulder blades, and the wolf seems as exhausted as she is; their eyes are shut, and they sleep the sleep of exhausted creatures, of the dead. Rickon nudges her boot with the toe of his own, and she doesn’t so much as even stir. He sighs, looking north and south along the road. It is deserted; this is a desolate place in which to live, and more than inhospitable to moving forces. The ongoing war has reduced travel to necessity; winter has reduced it further, even here at the southernmost part of the North. He chews the inside of his cheek, staring down at her and his wolf, wondering what in hells he’s gotten himself, all of them, into.

He waters the horses and himself, tucking Shireen’s skin into her bag. His fingers brush something silken and he curses, whipping his hand out of her bag as if it were a nest of vipers. _Gods in all hells, I’ve touched her underthings,_ he thinks, and glancing over his shoulder to her, hastily refastens her bag, stepping away from it as quickly as possible, returning to his wolf and his ward.

 _She is my ward, and more than that. I swore an oath to Davos I would guide her and protect her with my life._ He is, in essence, her sworn shield, and yet he too is so weary that he simply sags down to his knees and then to his arse, resting against Shaggydog’s back, the wolf acting as barrier between the princess and him.

“Ten minutes,” he mumbles to no one, to the gods maybe, so that they might wake him when that short time has passed. “I see no one ahead or behind us; ten minutes shouldn’t do any harm.” And he lets his head drop against the black fur, eyes sliding shut. He dreams he is a direwolf with fur as black as the hair of the princess curled against him. He heaves a sigh, feels the roughness of the road on the pads of his paws. She murmurs against him and he cannot help but rumble a growl in response, and he sinks back into the dreamless sleep of wolves with the feeling of her fingers curled into the thickness of his coat.

“Rickon,” says a woman’s voice close to his ear, and he jerks awake, left hand on the hilt of his sword, drawing it out halfway before a slender hand stays the movement, pressing firmly against his knuckles. “Rickon, it’s me, it’s Meera.” He blinks the unfocused haze of sleep away and true to her word, there she is, sitting back on her haunches beside him, eyes as green as his, as his wolf’s, and then he remembers his dream and whips his head around to make sure Shireen is still there. She has not moved, and neither, from what he can tell, has Shaggydog. He thinks to give the wolf a nudge for sleeping through Meera’s arrival, but then he did as well, so he drops his elbow.

“She’s all right; you’ve both been asleep for hours, since I found you here.”

“ _Hours?_ ” he sits up fully and she rises to her feet, looking down on him with an amused expression. “Wait, you’ve been here hours,” he says in an attempt to organize his thoughts and the facts he’s been given. “How are you even here? It’s six days’ ride to Greywater, even with the pace we’ve been setting.”

“Aye, and fine pace it is, a heap of dreamers in the middle of the kingsroad during a war. You’re lucky your horses are too tired to wander.”

“You know what I mean,” he says, staggering to his feet.

“Word passes swiftly in the Neck, Stark, and I have been ranging with my crannogmen. But I can lead you through the swamps now, find you a quicker route to Greywater Watch, and there you and your lady love can rest in more ideal circumstances.”

“She is _not_ my lady love,” he snaps, much to her amusement. “She is the Baratheon princess, displaced due to the Targaryen push from the south in the Riverlands; they’ve taken her father prisoner. I’m her, oh gods, I don’t know. Her guard? Her shield?” He sighs and looks bleakly to Meera, who switches out the amusement in her expression for sympathy. “It’s a daunting task, and seemed easier in the dead of night when the Hand of the King asked it of me. But we are weeks away from our destination. We must ride to White Harbor and sail on from there. We’ve ridden less than 12 hours and I’ve already exhausted her.”

“All the reason to rest in my father’s home,” she says simply, pulling out strips of dried fish and a heel of bread. “Here, regain some energy and we will ride off the road and into the swamps. You were lucky for such a deserted road for so long, but we should not press our luck, I think.”

Rickon eats and then they gently rouse the princess, and she is a rag doll of drowsiness, stumbling to her feet between them as if she had drunk a flagon of wine by herself. “Here, Meera, you take her horse. Shireen, I mean, my lady, mount on mine and I will ride behind you. You can sleep that way without risk of falling.” He nods encouragingly to her. She blinks at him and then smiles.

“Thank you, my lord. Rickon. Ser Stark,” she giggles, and he rolls his eyes with a smirk, hiding it quick enough when Meera gives him a look. He helps her into her saddle and pulls his weary hide up behind her, taking the reins with both hands now so that she can doze in the circle of protection they provide. She does so almost immediately, her head dropping back against his shoulder. Meera clucks to her horse, moving in front of Rickon and Shireen, mouthing _lady love_ with an arched eyebrow, and he snarls at her to hold her tongue. He whistles for Shaggydog to rise and when he does, Rickon follows Meera as she ambles her steed off the road, her crannog eyes picking out the path where he had seen nothing but deadly marsh.

He has been with a woman only a handful of times in his life, but always because of a visit from one of the women who follows soldiers, taking advantage of post-battle victories when men have their blood up and passions stirred. But he has never ridden with them as he does now, has never cradled a woman as he cradles one now. It makes him feel more a man, in a way, than it did to lose his virginity, than it did to take a woman in his tent, to be responsible for this woman not only as her guard but as her guardian in sleep, and so Rickon rides carefully, carefully so she does not slip but also so she does not wake.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Shireen wakes, it is a confusing moment, and she wonders where the wolf went, the black direwolf who was her soft bed on the kingsroad. But now she is upright, her head bouncing against something firm, something leathered, something muscled, and her eyes open. It is day, but the light is muted, rich with secretive life, and there is a humming to the air, or perhaps she is just that tired. There is an arm braced around her waist, a gloved fist clenched lightly against her ribs, and another arm around her, though that hand is closed in the mane of the horse she rides on, reins spilling out from either side of its fist. And she remembers Rickon mounting up behind her so she could fall back asleep, and at once she feels grateful, embarrassed and weak. If she is to travel all the way to Skagos, she needs to put a little grit in her blood, grit like he has.

She realizes her head is resting back on his shoulder, and from time to time it nudges against his jaw from the motion of the beast beneath them, and however irritating that may be, he does not move. Indeed, as sensation and realization thaw and run in rivers through her, she can tell he is stone still save for the rocking of the horse, muscles taut as they prop her up, as they amble on in silence through the thickening marshland. Trees, scrubby wild things covered in moss and vine, even as the snow falls, choke the landscape, blotting out the weak sun that already filters through clouds overhead, clouds she squints up at, blinking against the brightness before looking down around her.

“You’re awake,” he says, and she can both hear it and feel it, the rumble of his deep voice through boiled leather and the fur on her shoulders. She nods and hums in assent, and his arm lingers only a moment around her before he moves it, unclenching his hand to take up the reins, his left hand releasing the mane so he can ride properly now. Immediately his body relaxes and they draw slightly apart, and for some reason that fills her with sadness. It reminds her of her father, how he was there once, and now is gone, how the world she had known before, no matter how chaotic a life it was, is changed forever.

She had stability, even throughout all the battles and travel, and now she has nothing but a 20 year old warrior, however many belongings fit into a saddlebag, a horse whose name she does not know. She blinks back tears, angry at herself for crying after so recently swearing to buck up and dig up some strength from within, to be the Baratheon she is.  _Ours is the fury,_  she thinks to herself in an attempt to claim some of that determination for herself, but it is diluted, a poor attempt to be her father’s daughter.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of hours,” he says, moving his body further away as he twists slightly in his saddle. The warmth of him returns and he hands her a skin of water, from which she drinks thirstily. “I have dried beef and Meera’s salt fish as well, if you’re hungry.” She nods and he provides it, and she sits, skin in one hand, meat in the other; _I am all need,_ she thinks _, all take and no give_. There is no wind in her sails, despite the extra sleep she has had, and though she would be loath to admit it, she feels acutely sorry for herself.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles after swallowing a bite of food.

“For what?”

“For this. For this entire mess. I wish my father had let me stay. I wish I were with him now.”

Rickon is quiet now, and it gives her time to eat the rest of the beef and fish, chasing it down with his water before holding the skin to him. He takes it and drinks from it as well before returning it to his pack. “Here,” he says, turning his hands up, the reins like leather ribbons across his open palms. “Drive on, if you would.” She does so and he leans back away from her, stretching his arms high into the air before sitting back up, arms stretched behind him. “There, that’s better,” he says, but he does not ask for the reins back. “If you don’t mind, I would walk a bit; we travel slowly enough, and I could use a chance to stretch my legs.”

Shireen nods and without even stopping the horse he instructs her to lean forward, press against the horse’s neck, and he swings his long leg over her and leaps down from the saddle. He groans like an old man and presses a hand to his lower back before striding alongside her, shoulder in line with her stirrup.

“First off,” he says after several minutes, and Shireen knows he was using the time to collect his thoughts, to iron them out and put order to them. “It is a good thing you are not a prisoner of war. Highborn though you may be, after a battle all women are the same to some soldiers. You’re safest here, and Davos knew that. Secondly, you do not need to apologize. Davos sent me away from the front lines to go to you, and this way I get to return to the North. I have fought for your father the king for a long time, nearly half my life, and I have no passionate fever to keep going. It’s not really my fight, not anymore. I’ve had my vengeance.”

“Vengeance,” she echoes, tasting the word. “For your family, you mean.” She watches as he digs his fingers into Shaggydog’s fur, the great wolf at his side. Rickon nods.

“Aye, for my mother, for Robb, for my lost sisters. Bran… he went beyond the Wall with Meera,” he says, lifting his chin in the small woman’s direction, and she glances back towards them with a nod. “Meera and her brother, but only Meera returned. I don’t know where to go to avenge him, if that even needs be done, but I killed Bolton men and I killed Frey men. It would have been good to kill Lannisters as well, to spike a head in return for my father’s, but Targaryens did that for me. I suppose I should be grateful.” His voice is flint and steel, his jaw muscles working as he talks, and he does not look at her, only the ground, and she wonders if he sees visions of past bloodshed, Bolton blood and Frey corpses to step over.

Shireen hopes she will not need to exact vengeance on the Targaryen queen, and she bites her lip, wipes her mouth with her hand to smooth away the tremble of her chin. He does not notice, so lost is he in an anger that she has seen, fleetingly, when he rode off with sword drawn amongst her father’s men, when he shoved away the book she tried to get him to practice with, when he would sneer to those who would argue with him. This mercurial man is to be her sole companion across the North;  _my father is a steady and constant force, and I may never see him again._ Suddenly she wants to slay dragons with her bare hands.

They ride and walk on in silence, Rickon occasionally running ahead, wolf at his heels, to speak with Meera, to gain a sense of where they are. The trail they take is invisible to Shireen’s eyes, yet they do not sink in the mire, only plod forward on firm ground, or at the very least,  _firmer_  ground. She remembers riding south through the Neck but never in such an immersive way, as Howland Reed had protected them at the head and rear, but had not given them passage through the depths of his world, as his daughter does now.

All that way they’d gone, from the Wall to the Riverlands, and here they are, retracing their steps.  _I should have stayed at Castle Black,_  she thinks.  _I never should have begged my father to let me ride with him._ But then she realizes that if she hadn’t, he would still have gotten captured, and however busy he has been these seven years of warring, she was still able to spend time with him. She sniffs against the sleeve of her cloak and, keeping an eye on Meera and Rickon, who are discussing something, she pulls up her hood and disappears into it, and allows herself to cry for her loss.

 

He glances back; no matter how quiet she thinks she is, no matter how withdrawn she thinks she is, he can still hear her, and Meera can as well. When he looks back and up to the Greywatch heir, she is looking at him with knitted brows. Rickon shrugs, eyes wide. This is territory upon which he has never walked; he’d fare better if he waltzed off into the muck that would surely pull him under. Meera’s look turns into a pointed glare and she jerks her head back towards Shireen.

“I don’t ken crying women, all right?” he whispers. Put a sword in his hand, put a bounty on his head, put hate in his heart, and he walks the path of a confident man. Put a desolate, crying lady before him, and he fantasizes about drowning in quicksand.

Meera hisses her displeasure with him and looks back, sidling her horse to the edge of the path and _woahs_ , stopping until Shireen, unawares, rides up beside her, and only then does she pick up the pace once more. Rickon is snared between the two women and their horses, so he too stops until they move past him, and walks behind them in sullen, familiar solitude, save for Shaggydog, who stalks beside him, shoulder blades coming up to his ribs, and Rickon slings an arm across the wolf’s back, as if they were brothers trudging home drunk from an inn.

He has hardly had time to process what has happened, let alone consider what this turn of events will mean for them, for the future. He was issued an order to protect the princess and to tuck her away on an island at the other end of the realm, and he has obeyed, but with the heat of battle and threat of death faded away, it seems an increasingly daunting task. They are days from Greywater, at least a week from White Harbor after they leave Reed’s seat, and then gods know how long of a sail to the island. But in between these legs of their arduous journey are the smaller, and somehow more intimidating aspects of such a trek, and a woman’s tears is just one of them. He is responsible, too, for feeding her, and he has only his sword; he will have to ask Meera for a bow and arrows. He will have to clothe her, protect her, and, he assumes with some bitterness, live with her, guard her night and day. It dawns on him that Davos’s demand is a life sentence, that though he escaped battle, imprisonment, possible execution, he has willingly put on a yoke for potentially the rest of his days, and it makes wild-hearted Rickon sigh heavily.

The two women talk quietly, but he overhears words like  _I understand,_ words like  _he’ll be fine, I’m sure of it_  and  _of course you are_  and other such mewling, empty statements. But it seems to do the trick, and before long Shireen’s hood is pushed back. He sighs, and is weary from walking, and about to ask Meera to switch horses, or grudgingly to ask for his seat behind Shireen, when Meera slows to a stop and dismounts. The crannogwoman is unaccustomed to riding, and she limps slightly, rubbing a hip as she walks back towards Rickon. Shireen turns in the saddle to watch, to listen, brow furrowed. The greyscale on her face is darker beneath the vined and tangled tree canopy, and she looks like a haunting on his gray courser.

“We’re not to Greywatch yet, and won’t be for a couple of days, but there are folk nearby who will take us in for the night. You both need proper meals and better rest to get you to White Harbor, and once we’re to my father’s home, you will be free to stay as long as you need to gather your strength.”

“Thank you, Meera,” he says gratefully, lifting his eyes to Shireen who has half turned her horse to better regard them. He frowns, frozen momentarily; it is not that he doesn’t  _care_ , it’s just a language he doesn’t understand, that of women. But at last he bows his head to her, closing his eyes briefly before looking back to her. She wears a faint smile, sad on the edges, but she nods back to him, and he feels less a callous brute for it. He turns his attention back to Meera. “Is it far? Shall I ride or shall we walk?”

She sighs. “By all means ride. It is not half a mile but I cannot stand another moment astride. You two ride on, I will lead the way.” She smiles fondly to Shaggydog, knowing well from their journey from Winterfell not to touch him, and Rickon is reminded of how Shireen was able to cuddle up to him as if he were a doll. He shakes his head with a roll of his eyes and strides to the brown courser. He moves to get up, but Shireen is sliding in a sea of skirts and cloaks and fur down the side of his own gray, coming around.

“I miss this beast of mine,” she says with a smile. “Though I wish I knew his name.” He steps aside and cups his hands for her foot so she can mount easier, and sighs, feeling guilty.” What is it?” she asks, looking at him with confusion. He shakes his head and walks to the left side of his horse, mounting up, as Meera strides forward to lead them.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but… I do not know his name, because I stole him. There was a lot of chaos last night, and no time to ask permission of anyone.” He sees in her eyes what he expected, disappointment, the expression of a woman unimpressed with his lack of honor. He shrugs it off best he can. “The bright side is you may name him yourself, seeing as he is well and truly yours now.”

She sighs, patting her horse’s neck as they follow Meera, who is already several yards ahead of them; she moves quickly on her own feet in her own environment. “I can’t think of a good one. Does  _yours_ have a name, or is he stolen too?”

“No, he is mine, has been since I was brought to your father,” Rickon says. He clears his throat and inhales deeply. “He is named Grey Wind, after my dead brother’s dead wolf.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, a soft little circle to her mouth when he glances at her, nodding. “I’m sorry.” He nods and shrugs, and they ride on in silence, and then she looks at him; it takes him a few moments to realize she waits for his attention, to lift his eyes to hers, and he finds a small smile waiting for him, one he returns.

“I shall name him Fury, then, for my house. I may end up being the only remaining trueborn Baratheon. I will pass down the words of our sigil.”

“As good a name as any,” he murmurs. She is a lady with a head of books and stories, history and language, with fine gowns and a king for a father, with soft hands and a softer voice. He knows this journey will test her and worry her with its jaws. Her choice of name makes him wonder, _what will Shireen be like if she truly finds_ her _fury?_

 The path winds deeper still, and if Shireen’s bearings are correct, they are heading west, farther away from the kingsroad. The sunlight, however watery and wan, is fading now, and the light of the swamplands becomes an eerie glow, as if the trees had soaked it up and emit it from their trunks now. An unnatural shape looms up in the distance, and Meera glances back to them with a smile.

“Junah and Hamil are older and they remember your father, Rickon. They will be honored to host you and your guest tonight,” Meera says. He says nothing; Shireen glances to him, frowning, worried for him. Speaking of his family has never come easily to him, and when they had their reading lessons together he refused to take the bait whenever she’d asked; indeed, the bits of information he has given her today are more than she’s ever known about him. She sighs when he doesn’t acknowledge her, only gives Meera a grunt and a nod at last, staring down at his reins. His jaw is working, she can see that even in this strange, low light, as if he is chewing on this information, trying to work out what it means between his teeth.

As they get closer, Shireen’s eagerness to see her first crannog gets the better of her. She lifts her chin, trying to see more, and she leans slightly to the left, then the right, to see past the trees and vines and brush. She does not see Rickon looking at her with amusement, only does so when he finally laughs, when she turns her head sharply to him. She scowls at him, which only makes him laugh more, and when she kicks her horse to walk past his, she can hear the low rumble of his chuckling behind her.

It is a simple but elegant structure of logs built up on a small island in the center of a wide pool of still water, with a bridge of wooden planks connecting it to the trail on which they ride. A plume of smoke rises from the center of the crannog, and the air smells of mossy flame. Shireen is delighted with it, with its quaintness and hominess, its faint aura of mystery and exoticism. Bundles of herbs hang beneath the deep eaves, along with the skeletal jaws of lizard lions and lines of salted fish, in neat rows like soldiers.

“We’ll tie off your horses here, on the path, and no harm will come to them this close to someone’s home,” Meera says, and Rickon dismounts swiftly, coming promptly to Fury’s side.

“My lady?” he asks, offering her his hands, but she shakes her head.

“It’s all right, thank you. I’ll need to get used to doing it by myself,” she says. He raises his eyebrows and drops his hands, nodding to her words, and she is proud of herself, proud to catch him off guard. He takes a step back as she dismounts, bringing her leg over the rump of the horse, opposite to his style, and after a slightly unsteady moment with her left foot still in the stirrup as she straightens her skirts, she lowers herself to the ground. Flashing him a triumphant smile, which makes him snort and smirk, she takes the satchel from the saddle and sweeps past her shield towards their host and hostess.

Junah and Hamil are fine boned like Meera though shorter in stature, and Junah, her eyes bright in her wrinkled face, immediately fawns all over her, taking her inside by the hand. It is just one large, circular room, with a low table to kneel at beside the fire in the center, and two raised pallets along the curved wall. There are more dried and hanging herbs, and all three women laugh when tall Rickon, who indeed towers over them all, stoops to enter and immediately straightens into a thick bunch of dried flowers, sending brittle leaves and blossoms in a small shower over his shoulders. He mutters good naturedly, sweeping the stuff away with his hands, and Hamil immediately goes to the fire, over which a large pot hangs, and begins to ladle the contents into small bowls.

They sup and drink a strange cider-like brew, and both fill her with a warmth that makes her simultaneously invigorated and contentedly drowsy. There is a quality of home life here that makes her heart ache; she has not felt that way about any place since Storm’s End, and that was so long ago she cannot even remember what her chambers looked like. Their hosts and Meera are discussing some business of territories in the Neck, and she lets her mind loose, knowing she’s not expected to listen to them, to follow any of it. Humming nonsensically to herself, gazing into the fire, she is taken unawares when Rickon drops to the thick rug on the hay-strewn floor beside her, long legs bent in front of him, arms braced against his thighs. He is sneaky without his jostling sword belted around his hips. He has a wooden jug with him and holds it up to her by means of asking.

“Yes, please,” she murmurs, smiling her thanks to him as he fills her cups. They sip the brew in unison, firelight flickering over their faces, and are at the brink of achieving what she identifies as a companionable silence when he clears his throat. He has his cup clasped between his knees and he stares at it a long while, letting her study him in profile. He is a handsome man; young still, but handsome. War and tragedy have put small lines in the corners of his eyes, but there has not yet been enough smiles and laughter to line his mouth.

“I heard you crying today,” he says quietly, flicking his eyes warily to Meera, Junah and Hamil before finally, finally, bringing his gaze to her. “I heard you crying, and I didn’t know what to do.” This confession twists something inside of her, though she is unsure of how, or what, or why, but she smiles.

“A good thing Meera was there, then,” she quips in an attempt to bring lightness to the topic of conversation, but Rickon does not take the bait.

“She won’t be for much longer, though. Greywater Watch, at most Moat Cailin, but we have many, _many_ miles to go. How am I- I don’t even know how to, to, ah, hells. I don’t know how to comfort a woman.” He drops his eyes, and she drinks more of the cider-like stuff and chuckles.

“No, I suppose you don’t. But I do think we’ll come to know each other better in time, don’t you? And perhaps I will become less of a woman to you--”

“Impossible,” he replies without hesitation, and then he whispers _fuck_ to himself. Shireen laughs. “I mean, or I mean I _didn’t_ mean,” but Shireen cuts him off.

“I mean I will become less a woman to you, and more a friend?”

He exhales and nods, draining his drink and refilling the cup instantly. She bites back a smile. “And friends comfort each other, do they not? In truth, just being there is often times enough of a comfort, don’t you think?”

She feels the difference in their ages there, when she sees Rickon’s enlightenment over her words, but it is an endearment, and not a vexation. He turns his face back to her. “I hope I am strong enough to do what has been asked of me.”

“I only hope I’m strong enough to stumble behind you in your footsteps,” she admits, and they chuckle together, turning their heads to gaze, side by side, into the small but merry flames, and they finish their cider-not-cider in what Shireen now _knows_ is a companionable silence.

 

Hamil and Junah share their pallet as man and wife, but explain that the other is for the two travelers, and they smile and gesture encouragingly towards it before turning to bed themselves down, stringing up a curtain of furs and blankets between the two beds for privacy. Rickon sputters and starts for a moment, but comes to his own rescue and insists that Meera and Shireen share it. They do so, and it is _jealousy_ he feels when he sees Meera help unlace Shireen from her dress, because that is _his_ job, to care for her, but he swallows it down as he kicks off his boots and stretches out on the rug by the fire, where he and Shireen had their conversation. He folds his arms beneath his head for a pillow and stares up at the ceiling, the small hole in its center where the smoke snakes up into the night sky to curl and wrap round moss-choked boughs.

He hazards a glance in their direction, watching as Meera, in the spot closest to the wall, the coldest of the two, lays her head and turns her back towards the fire. Shireen is on her side facing the flames that make sharp shadows of the greyscale; _it does nothing,_ he decides, _in the way of diminishing her beauty,_ and is musing on that when her gaze shifts and their eyes meet.

A spike of something is in his heart in that moment, and he feels like a startled animal, rooted to the spot and unable to look away, and neither does she look elsewhere. For several moments they regard one another until finally Shireen smiles and closes her eyes, and Rickon is left alone to try and figure out why his heart won’t stop racing.


	3. Chapter 3

They are more exhausted than they knew, and stay with Junah and Hamil another two nights, and when Rickon sees how weary Grey Wind and Fury are, he is all the more grateful for their hosts’ hospitality. They sleep late all three mornings, and Shireen laughs at him when he rises with hay marks imprinted in his face; since their talk by the fire that first night, there has been an ease between them, seeping from the outside in. He fishes with Hamil, a way to sing for his supper, a way to help the old man in some form as a thank you for their kindness. Shireen sits, indoors at night and on the wooden deck that circles the round, stilted house during the day, learning how to fletch arrows as Meera shows her the theory of using a bow, the crannogwoman’s legs dangling over the edge of the deck as Shireen sits in a graceful pool of skirts, ever the lady.

Though they are tucked deep within the swamps of the Neck, ensconced in the protection of not only Reed’s daughter but their fiercely loyal people as well, though it is a near impossibility that anyone could find them, Rickon is wary to venture too far from her. He has processed through the enormous upheaval in his life; he has assessed it, picked it up and examined it, set it down again and accepted it as the path he now walks, and he takes this new role as her shield seriously.  She moves and his eyes watch her, even Shaggydog will lift his head to stare after her retreating form. Pity the man who steps between these two wolves of Winterfell and their princess.

“I’m not going to suddenly get whisked away by a dragon, you know,” she says with a smile on the second afternoon as she follows Meera across the wooden bridge to practice shooting with the bow. “You watch me as a dog watches sheep.” Rickon snorts, folding his arms across his chest as he follows them, Shaggydog at his heels. They make a comical parade, marching single file back to a shallow clearing just off the path, where Meera has set up a target of sorts, a burlap sack with a smear of mud in the middle. She has nailed it to a tree, and waits for Shireen to get into position. She no longer teases Rickon so blatantly, but there is ever amusement in her eyes, an unspoken joke that makes him grumble and mutter when no one else is looking.

“A fine choice of words considering the beasts that now roost in King’s Landing.”

“That was the point,” she says dryly over her shoulder to him before settling in to listen to Meera’s instruction. Rickon finds a not-too-damp tree trunk to lean on and watches the two women, one teaching and the other learning. As to be expected, her skills are poor, and after one particularly bad shot that sends the arrow into the water and the bow backwards to the ground, that sends Meera out wading in the frigid water for the arrow, Rickon doubles over laughing, hands braced against his knees. His laughter rings out and echoes, and before he can right himself, she storms over and shoves him on the shoulders. He falls back onto his arse but it is no matter to _him;_ he is taken over by laughter, his body shakes with it, and soon it is the silent, hysterical laughter that builds upon itself.

“Insufferable man!” She snaps, but he lies back on the ground, not caring that his head rests in the dirt. The wall of his abdominal muscle aches already; it has been a long, long time since he has laughed this hard.

“Oh gods, but you should have seen it. The bow went flying, _backwards!_ It is the arrows,” he wheezes out, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s the _arrows_ that are to fly, my lady, not the bow.” He grunts through his laughter when she kicks his boot, but then she’s laughing too, holding her ribs with her head thrown back, and Meera wades back, holding an arrow, muddy water marked up to her thighs and a narrow-eyed, disgruntled expression on her face. Rickon and Shireen pause, breathless, looking over to her, and they simultaneously burst into laughter once more, and Meera chucks the arrow to the ground.

“Imbeciles, both of you,” she says before stalking off back to the crannog to clean herself off, and it only makes them laugh harder.

“Here, halfwit, give me your hand, I’ll help you up,” Shireen offers, gasping for breath and extending her hand.

“I think not, foolish woman, I’ll only pull you down, little thing you are,” he says with a chuckle, sitting up and getting to his feet, catching his breath with a deep sigh. “Here, take up that bow. You’re not nocking the arrow correctly, and you’re not holding it to the string with enough force.”

“Interesting, taking advice from a man who has leaves in his hair,” she says with an easy grin, moving to stand behind him, and before he knows what is happening her fingers are in his hair, combing out the leaves, her nails against his scalp for the briefest moment, and a wave of gooseflesh sweeps him over, from the base of his neck to the base of his spine. His eyes close of their own accord and he just barely manages to keep from tipping his head back into the touch. It has been a long time since he has laughed so richly, but even longer since he has received such a tender, feminine touch.

“There, you look less wild, now, but not by much,” she says, and he opens his eyes, running his own hands through his hair as if to shake out her touch. He grunts.

“You’ll look even more so, once we get to Skagos. You’ll wear your hair in braids with bone and seashells woven into the plaits, and the whorls and swirls of ink will be needled into your skin. You will be a wildling woman, and will kill men with your bare hands,” she turns from gazing at the target to stare at him, at a loss for words, and he grins darkly, raising his eyebrows. “Queen of Skagos, first of her name,” and she sees that he teases her, and sticks her tongue out at him.

He helps her with her form by standing behind her, straightening her hunched shoulders with a press between her shoulder blades, steadying her arm by readjusting her elbow, little tricks to improve her aim. He crosses his arms across his chest and nods when her stance looks well enough. “When you’re ready, loose the arrow on the exhale of your breath.” She does as instructed and this time, she hits the trunk of the tree; not the sack, but close enough, and he smiles down at her when she turns to grin victoriously.

“Well done, my lady,” he says, and she rolls her eyes cheerfully.

“For goodness sake, call me Shireen, please, that formality is unnecessary now.”

“Well done, Shireen,” he obeys, and she smiles, turning back to the target, nocking another arrow.

“ _Thank_ you, Rickon.”

They practice all afternoon, and Meera returns in clean, dry breeches and offers encouragement and tips. She and Rickon take turns trying to best each other, and while Meera is good, always hitting the burlap though missing the middle a few times, there is no beating Rickon at this sport. Osha taught him well, and each time the arrow _thwacks_ into the target he thinks of his foster mother, the last mother he knew. He is humble enough, but when the movement of a winter squirrel catches his eye to the right and he pins it to the tree with one arrow, and Meera and Shireen both clap while the crannogwoman also whistles low, he cannot keep a shy smile from creeping in. He hides it by turning to retrieve both arrow and his prize, and is the perfect picture of neutral composure when he returns.

 

“Pants would be easier on your travels,” Meera says, lacing Shireen up into her other dress the morning that they leave Junah and Hamil. Rickon and Hamil are outside as he saddles the horses, and Junah is wrapping salt fish and root vegetables in squares of linen, filling small pouches with nuts and dried berries and others still with mixtures of herbs. Shireen sighs sadly; she has grown fond of her hosts and new friends, and wishes they could stay here indefinitely.

“I know. I will make the change in White Harbor.”

“We are nearly the same size, I could give you some of my own once we reach my home,” Meera says, and when she’s finished with her dress, Shireen turns and smiles.

“That would be incredibly kind of you. We’ve been treated so well here. I hate to leave.”

“I shall hate to see you go, that is certain,” Meera smiles. “But we’ve still the distance to Greywater Watch to go, and there’s no requirement that you must leave my father’s home right away. He’d be happy to host Eddard Stark’s son for as long as you both require.” Shireen remembers how sullen he gets at the mention of his father, and it makes her bite her lip, to which Meera frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, Rickon doesn’t seem eager to discuss his family. Less so than one would assume. I only wonder why.”

“If you wonder, you could always ask,” he says, bowing his head to fully enter the crannog, avoiding the bundles of herbs expertly now. Shireen jumps, so startled she is by his materialization. “I won’t bite.”

“I’ll just take this out to Fury,” Meera says quietly, picking up the saddle bag and walking out onto the deck.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak of you and your family without, um, I mean, behind your back. Or at all.” She feels foolish now, like a simpering girl wagging her tongue with a friend, but he shakes his head, walking towards her, to his own two saddlebags resting by Shireen and Meera’s pallet. He squats down, buckling them closed, staring at his task rather than her.

“There is no great mystery to it. As far as I know, I’m the last member of my family. I was fostered by a wildling woman, I lived with tribes of men with no honor, no loyalty. I do not feel like I am a Stark, and I do not feel worthy of the name or the respect that comes with it. I am told that people, people like Hamil and Junah, are honored to have the son of Ned Stark at their table, but I don’t know what that means, I don’t know what they expect. I hardly even remember my father, but I know he _was_ a man of honor, of loyalty, of duty, but I have no idea how to be like him. I have no inkling, whatsoever, how to be a Stark, because there is no other Stark to guide me.”

He speaks quietly, so quietly she has to crouch down beside him to hear, and though he keeps his eyes downcast, long after the saddlebags are fastened and ready for travel, she sees the sorrow in his eyes, and knows she could drown in the pain if he were to look directly at her. Shireen wants to reach out to him, lay a hand on his shoulder, but she is unsure; they have spoken of becoming friends, and such a naked and open confession surely means he trusts her, but still, they have only been in each other’s close company for four days. So her hand, half outstretched, falls to her knee.

“I’m sorry, Rickon,” she whispers, and she thinks of her father, held captive in the south, likely being brought, bound and chained, to King’s Landing to treat with the dragon queen. _“_ I cannot imagine how that feels.”

“About as good as it sounds,” he says, getting to his feet, the straps of the bags in his fist. He extends his free hand to her, and this time her hand stretches all the way and slips into his, and it is a firm, strong grip that he has as he helps her to stand. When he opens it to free her, it is with a gentle unfurling, as if it is sand that sifts through his fingers and not her own. She watches their hands part before inhaling and looking up at him.

“You are doing a fine job of being a Stark. It’s not just a name, you know, it’s your blood. It’s written behind your eyes and in your skin, it’s in every action you make, in every woman you save, simply because you gave another man your word,” she says with a small smile, and he huffs a bit at that, mulling over her words before nodding, lifting his eyes to hers at last, and some of that sorrow has faded in the wild green of his eyes, and there is something like warmth, something like gratitude there.

Junah has tears in her eyes when they depart, and Shireen finds that she too is on the verge of crying, she is that unhappy to leave them and their warm little home. Rickon and Hamil grasp each other’s forearms in a firm handshake, and the couple stand on the deck of their home as they did when they arrived, waving farewell as Meera and Shireen ride down the trail, as Rickon and Shaggydog walk behind them like shadows.

Shireen sees more crannogs and is fascinated by them. Not all are as sturdy as Hamil’s; others are made of reeds and make her think of rabbit warrens, as they look like systems of tunnels that house more than one family. Meera waves to them all, stops to speak to some, and between these greetings she talks of her life in the Neck. She is married to a man, Brinn of House Fenn, and they live with their two children at her father’s seat. Shireen marvels at her freedom and command despite being a married noblewoman, and Meera grins back at her enigmatically, stating that the more a man loves a woman the freer he lets her roam. Shireen watches as her eyes, lit with mischief, flicker past her. She turns in her saddle to see Rickon scowling as he tears leaves from a spindly branch and chucks them in the water to their left.

They tease each other often, or rather, Meera teases him and he endures it, and not for the first time Shireen wonders if there had been a romance there, ever, in their youth, after they fled Winterfell. Meera is older than she, well into her thirties, but a childhood crush wouldn’t be unheard of. She glances back to Rickon but he is lost in thought and does not look up, so she is left to ponder this on her own, left to ponder why it even matters to her at all.

 

Meera is able to ferret out another place for them to sleep in, one of several larger wooden structures stilted up in the endless water, networks of bridges linking them to each other and to dry ground. Once more they tie off the horses and once more they are introduced to crannogmen, the younger behaving with deference to Meera, the elders always bowing their heads to Rickon when they hear his last name. His conversation with Shireen has stuck with him, and their reactions only nettle him more, so he broods inwardly while maintaining a polite expression on the outside.

But it also strikes him that Shireen is also the last in line for the Baratheons, and that they will have the whims of Daenerys to thank or blame for whether she remains someone’s daughter or becomes an orphan like he is. Her mother died of a fever a few years into Rickon’s service in the king’s army, and her uncles died around when his own parents were killed. They are very much alone, and while he feels guilty about it, he cannot deny that something about that connection, that similarity, comforts him. Misery loves company.

Dinner is a rabbit stew, thick with carrots and onions and root vegetables, and he is grateful for the break from fish, and asks for two helpings, making his hostess smile proudly as she ladles more into his bowl. Though this crannog is big enough, it is smaller than Junah and Hamil’s, and there are children for whom to accommodate, so when it comes time to sleep they are simply given woven blankets to use as pallets. He sleeps on Shireen’s left and Meera sleeps on her right. His rest is fitful, and so when the princess turns in her sleep, curling like a leaf into herself, and her forehead brushes his shoulder, his eyes open almost instantly.

The embers from the fire are still bright enough to cast light and shadows about them, and he turns his head to look down at her. She is so small, and their mission is so large, as large as the land on which they traverse. He frowns, and feels profound sorrow and empathy for her; before he had been consumed with what all of this change meant for _him_ but now he sees the strength in her, to leave her father’s men and to keep going, to follow and trust him, a reckless man once filled with revenge and vendettas who is now empty and full of nothing but faded memory and lupine dreams.

Meera walks the rest of the way to Greywater Watch, so Rickon rides his gray and Shireen rides her Fury, and she coos to him, pats his neck and combs his mane with her fingers, brushes him down herself that night when they stop and put themselves at the mercy of another family’s hospitality. It makes Rickon smile, reminds him of how connected he feels to Shaggydog, who walks ahead of them, between them and Meera.

“Will you practice more with your bow?” He asks her as they plod on.

“Yes, I will. Barring that rather humiliating incident, I find I rather enjoy it,” she says, smiling to him, and though the hilarity of her abysmal shot has faded he still chuckles at the memory of it. “Maybe I will become good enough to hunt for food myself, though I highly doubt I will ever have the skill to match your impressive shot.”

“It was only a squirrel,” he mutters, but a warm little thing blooms inside him that feels a lot like pride. “And you will get good enough to hunt, I am sure of it. We have nothing but time on our long trek.”

Shireen laughs and shakes her head. “You’ve the hard truth of it right there. Sometimes I lie awake in the middle of the night and think on it, how absolutely mad this is. Why couldn’t Davos have suggested some place closer? Or _warmer_ ,” she says with feeling, and Rickon laughs.

“You and your southern blood. I found Skagos to be exhilarating: sea salt in the air, coating the grasses that whip against your legs from the wind. It has its own beauty, you’ll see. Perhaps you will even grow to love it, in time,” he says, though he scandalizes himself but using words like _love_ with her. She shrugs with good humor and he smiles, twisting in his saddle to rummage through his saddlebag.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little, yes. Check those pouches, I think she put fruit and nuts in one,” Shireen suggests, and he does so, dropping the reins and pulling off a glove with his teeth so he can better untie the leather thong that cinches the pouch closed. There are no nuts, however, simply a mixture of herbs.

“What is this, to flavor our food?” He asks, perplexed. “Their food was good but it wasn’t that complex, why should they think to send us with a rub?” Shireen holds out her hand and he hands her the bag, putting his glove back on and reaching now for his water as she peers into the pouch, holding it to her nose to figure out what it is.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea. Meera? Is this some special crannogmen herbal remedy?” Meera turns to look at them and stops, waiting for them to ride up to her, and she takes the pouch, walking on as she performs the same inspection that Shireen had, and then she laughs. Rickon frowns, but Meera simply turns, walking backwards, and cinches shut the pouch before she tosses it to him, a wicked grin on her face.

“It seems that while, deep down, Junah might be a romantic, she is at heart a pragmatist,” she says, and Rickon scowls at her, glancing to Shireen who has a strange look on her face.

“What are you going on about? You’re talking nonsense,” he says before taking a swig from his skin of water.

“She sent you on your way with a very generous supply of moon tea,” and Rickon sputters out the mouthful of water, making his horse’s ears lie flat as he coughs and coughs, the sound of Meera’s peals of laughter in his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

Greywater Watch is nothing like what Shireen expected, having seen so many variations of the floating or stilted homes on their way northwards. No, it is a castle for true, of stone and mortar, and it rises eerily from the water on its own low lying island of rock and plant and wood. It is not grandiose but it is impressive just the same, looming as it does amidst drapes of moss in the surrounding half-drowned trees, the clammy mist that hangs droplets of dew in her hair and on Fury’s mane. There is no bridge, however, and while Shireen and even Rickon look around curiously (and a little warily, where Rickon is concerned), Meera simply whistles a lilting tune, birdlike and seemingly innocuous, until out of the twilight gloom comes a ferry, drifting silently towards them like a water wraith. Shaggydog growls deep in his throat, but Rickon shushes him sharply, and the growl tapers off into a barely audible roil in his throat, until his master rests his hand on the thick fur at the back of his neck.

It is steered along by the man who must be Meera’s husband, considering the intimacy of their greeting, and Shireen averts her eyes, looking instead to the haunting landscape around them, as if by its very nature as the seat of the Neck, Greywater has demanded a more dramatic surrounding. As they dismount and lead the horses onto the wide, low boat, she feels as if she’s crossing between realms, from a land of light and living to a land of dusk and in between, and before she can help it she’s looking over her shoulder with a shiver to see if the other world disappears behind them.

“Are you all right?” Rickon asks her over Grey Wind’s back, as they both stand on the left of their mounts, and she breathes out a shaky laugh.

“Yes, just being silly; superstitious, like a child.”

“When I was a boy, there were superstitious stories Old Nan told us that turned out to be true. Don’t be so quick to doubt yourself,” he murmurs, and it makes her look over her shoulder once again, but the mist and fog and a light fall of snow now hide the bank from whence they came, offering her only a muzzy sort of wall of blankness, and she shivers again, wonders if Rickon plumbed from her mind what she was thinking, wonders how he knew how to tease her in that moment.

There is an archway over a short canal leading to the innards of the castle walls under which they sail, the only sound being the slow, steady rhythm of Brinn’s pole as it dips into the water, as he pushes using all his weight, and then lifts the pole up, strands of algae hanging down like mermaids’ hair, water dripping down in thin drizzles back to the lake. There is a small dock in the yard where he ties off the ferry, helping first his wife across before taking the reins of Fury for Shireen and helping her across. The ground of the yard is hard packed despite the nature of the island on which they stand, and there is a small stable with two horses already housed, and three empty stalls. Brinn kisses Meera once more and bids her take their guests to the hall where her father waits, and she does so. The damp has seeped between Shireen’s clothes and her skin and she finds that warmth is nearly impossible to find now.

She is relieved to enter the hall and see lit braziers and a roaring fire in the hearth, globes of orange heat in the blue-gray chill, and though he is a rough creature borne of winter, Shaggydog pads down the room towards the fireplace at the rear of the hall and there he lies, waiting for his master. There are windows high in the walls and the light beyond them is a shade paler than black, they have made it there that close to nightfall.

There are a handful of people seated, scattered amongst the trestle tables, their small statures marking them as men and women of the Neck, and while there is no dais there is still a table, perpendicular to the others, at the far end closest to the fireplace, and it is in that direction that Meera strides, shrugging out of her bow to set it down on one of the tables stretching the length of the hall. A serving girl bows her head and Meera reflects the gesture back to her before approaching the head table. A slender, sinewy man stands, setting down a cup before walking around the table, his arms outstretched to greet Meera, and the warm embrace identifies him as Howland Reed, her father and lord of Greywater Watch. He smiles fondly to her before turning to where Rickon and Shireen stand behind her. Howland’s eyes are intelligent and kind, but also guarded and shrewd as he regards them keenly.

“And who have you brought us, daughter? Who does us the honor of visiting us?”

“Shireen Baratheon, daughter of Stannis Baratheon, and Rickon Stark, of whom you are well aware.”

“Yes,” Howland says with a smile, taking Shireen’s hand and bowing over it before offering his hand to Rickon, who grasps it firmly. He is easily half a foot taller than Howland but both men emanate a humble strength and because of that quality they seem equally matched. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady, lord Stark,” and Shireen steals a sideways glance at that, but Rickon masks his discomfort well.

“Lord Reed,” he says politely, and Howland laughs.

“Well, now that I hear how ridiculous it sounds, I realize we should perhaps call each other by our given names,” he says, and Rickon grins, nodding. “So, Rickon, my lady,” he starts, but Rickon holds up a hand.

“I’m afraid she is as stubborn as I,” he says, and Howland’s eyebrows raise as he gives Shireen a secondary, closer inspection. “She prefers her given name as well, else she knock you in the dirt and call you a halfwit,” he says slyly, glancing to her, and Shireen gasps, mortified that he offers such a poor first impression to the lord of the Neck, but Howland is laughing, and even Meera’s face is lit with her customary grin. She huffs a sigh and Howland clucks his tongue against his cheek, offering her his arm as he escorts her to a seat at the head table, her back to the fireplace.

“Forgive us, Shireen. I sit here in my hideaway keep and lose all sense of formality, and your escort here, from what I understand, has lived the life of a wildling and soldier. We have no graces.”

“I know of that in regards to  _one_  of you,” she says dryly, taking her seat and meeting Rickon’s eyes as he sits on the opposite side of Howland’s seat, and he feigns an expression of shock and hurt. The conversation is as light as their introductions, and she can see where Meera’s good humor comes from. Her husband and children, two small boys, sit down for the meal, and more of that cider-not-cider is poured while bowls of piping hot stew are brought out, and the three travelers tuck in with more enthusiasm than their counterparts. She learns that the meat is not fish, though it is white and tender; it is a medley of snake and lizard-lion. Her eyes widen at this information before she can stop herself, but there is Rickon, tall enough to glance at her over Howland’s shoulders, to catch her recoil, and his look is so smug it makes her want to throw her drink on him.

Howland asks of their travels, expertly and without words asking why they are here in the Neck.

“King Stannis has been taken prisoner by the Targaryen queen who has also taken King’s Landing. His Hand, Ser Davos, asked a vow of me to spirit away the princess to Skagos,” Rickon says bluntly, honestly, baldly, and that confidence in Reed takes her by slight surprise. “And as the crannogmen have been loyal to the Starks a thousand years and more, and your House the most loyal of all, I knew to come through the Neck to beg your protection. Meera here found us unawares on the kingsroad at the southernmost edge of the swampland, and has brought us to you.” Shireen had not known of this ancient fealty of crannogmen to the Starks, though Meera had hinted as much, and now their respect and kindness to Rickon, his subsequent embarrassment due to the alienation from his family, make sense.  _But he has no trouble falling back on that when the need arises,_  and she finds that she is proud of him for it.

Howland is instantly thoughtful, and she can see the lighthearted side fade out as a more serious side takes over; he rubs his chin whisker with thumb and forefinger.

“Targaryen. Which Targaryen?”

“Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys.”

“Sister to Rhaegar,” Howland says.

“Aye, and with a force several thousand strong, and dragons to boot,” Rickon replies.  “We’ve no idea if she will give Stannis mercy; he has a Targaryen grandmother, and Davos told me they hope to fall back on that.” He glances to Shireen, and there is an apology there, she thinks, perhaps for speaking so bluntly about her only family. She nods once and he returns it, the corner of his mouth twitching as if in a smile.

“I’m sorry, Shireen, for your father and for what you must be going through,” Howland says slowly, turning to look on her, and it is kindly, but she sees he is not fully with them anymore, and is losing himself to his thoughts.

After their meal ( _which was really quite good,_  she tells herself,  _no matter that I ate lizard-lion_ ), Meera sweeps away her children and Shireen is left as the sole woman there, is offered another cup of cider, which she accepts, but between that second cup and the merry fire in the hearth, warming her back and her hair, she finds that she is exhausted. Howland, ever observant, catches the dip of her chin, though she gives herself a mental shake when she sees his and Rickon’s attentions are on her. She smiles sheepishly.

“Forgive me, my- Howland, please, I did not realize just how tired I am.”

“No, no, Shireen, I am the one who needs must beg forgiveness for not recognizing that my guests have journeyed to  _me_ , have been on the road while I sit by my fire and drink spirits and rest comfortably,” he smiles, and she returns it. He beckons to the serving girl Meera had nodded to earlier, and asks that she escort Shireen to her guest chambers. Rickon half stands as she rises, but Howland rests his hand on Rickon’s forearm, and the young man looks down to his host.

“I would speak with you, Rickon, if you will hear it,” and his voice is so serious, so low and full that Rickon hesitates, eyes flicking up to Shireen. She smiles and nods.

“It’s all right, honestly. No one could find us if they tried,” she says.

“Shaggydog, to her,” Rickon says, still pinning her with his gaze, though he sits back down with reluctance, the confliction there in his eyes. The direwolf heaves to his feet and when she follows the girl, whose name is Nina, it is with a four legged shadow who all but disappears in the darkness of the hallway, though the hot gust of his breath at her back lets her know he is there, and he is so like his master in his focus and duty that she finds comfort in it.

 

“You are certain of this?” Rickon says after a lengthy stretch of silence, after Howland concludes the sharing of intelligence. They are in Howland’s chamber, the topmost room of a spindly tower, snug and warm from a peat fire, humid from the heavy air that surrounds Greywatch. Rickon unlaces his leather doublet, flushed from the shock of reality as much as from the climate, and sits back in his chair.

“I have as much proof thanks to my own eyes as much as I have from your father’s word.” Rickon nods, drinking deeply from his cup and Howland already makes a move to refill it, which he allows. “Aye, go ahead, news as this requires the heat of a good drink to help wrap your brain around it.

“Gods in hell,” he murmurs. “I had absolutely no idea.”

“Why would you? No one knows, not even the man in question.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“He isn’t going to believe it, even if it comes from me.”

“I’ll write a letter; we’ve no ravens here, but you post it to him once you get to White Harbor.”

“This could change everything, Howland. Everything.”

“It  _could_ , yes. But still, take her far away in case it changes nothing, in case it makes everything worse.”

Rickon nods. He has warred for seven years and has become a man amidst the blood and chaos of it, he knows how easily tides turn, how the smallest thing can make the biggest impact, but this is no small thing.

“Will you tell her?” Howland asks after they sit in silence a while, the fire dying down, the light fading. Rickon considers it a moment; he imagines offering her hope when only devastation comes, he imagines crushing her spirits or unwittingly putting her in further danger by giving her this information. His role now is to protect her, and though it pains him to be dishonest, he wonders if keeping this secret makes him more a Stark than sharing it.

“No,” he says firmly before draining the last of the brew, and Howland nods.

“Good.”

Though he has had four cups of the cloying, spiced ale they serve in the Neck, he finds he cannot sleep, and roams Greywater alone, missing his wolf but happy that at least one of them can guard her in the privacy of her own room. He finds an open bridge linking two towers and leans over the edge, staring down into the inky waters that swirl in silence below him. He snorts a quiet laugh to imagine the lizard-lions lurking in its depths that found their way into a princess’s bowl, and the ale makes it funnier, somehow. Rickon realizes he misses her company as well.

He miraculously makes his way back to the hall and even more fortuitous, he finds the serving girl, Nina, banking the fire for the night, and is able to ask her the way to his chamber.

“It’ll be the room next to the princess,” she says, casting a narrowed, critical look to him over her shoulder as they make their way down the hall. “But there’s no door adjoining the two, my  _lord_ , if you’ll be getting my meaning,” and Rickon is left to wonder why the women of the Neck are so determined to hen peck him.

He sheds his doublet and opens a window, airing the room out and cooling his sweat-damp tunic. Winter has come to Westeros, yes, but it is still no match for even the summer in Winterfell, summer on Skagos and the Wall. He is eager to get back to the region he knows as home. There has been a fire lit in his room and because of this he leaves the window open, to combat the heat and the trickles of smoke that seep into the room.

But sleep won’t come to him, he can tell, and instead of undressing for bed, a waste of time with his hackles up, and before he can help himself, he’s at her door, in the dark like a scoundrel, knocking lightly on her door. “Come in,” she says softly, voice a rumple from the depths of her room. He frowns, trying the latch, and the growl in his throat is a human echo of his wolf’s when he opens the door with ease.

“You don’t even lock your door?” he asks her, incredulous, striding in before realizing she does not read or doze by the fire but is bundled up, small as a child in bed. She sits up straight as shot, clutching together the untied panels of her nightshift together.

“Rickon what are you  _doing_  in here?” she gasps, voice shrill.

“Seven hells,” he swears, spinning on his heel to offer his back to her. “What in damnation are you doing saying ‘come in’ when someone,  _anyone_  comes knocking?” he asks the wall angrily, folding his arms across his chest.

“I thought you were Nina! She said she’d come back to tend to the fire before turning in for the night.” There is the rustling of covers, the unbuckling of a strap, and more rustling.

“ _She has a key,_ ” he snarls. “She can knock and then she can let herself in. Are you decent?”

“Yes,” she says angrily and he turns once more. She is certainly in a huff, her hair a black curtain on either side of her face, and her blue eyes blaze, dark as storm clouds.  _So this is the Baratheon fury,_  he thinks, and he grins to think of it before he can help himself. Her jaw drops, and her gasp is the angry hiss of snake. She rushes forward with her right hand raised, but he catches her wrist before the open palm can connect with his cheek, and her fingers curl under the pressure of his grip. He yanks her towards him through the force of the action, and they stare at one another, each in equal parts disbelief and anger, frozen in this moment of misunderstanding.

They stand there in their stalemate for so long Shaggydog growls, and whether he comes to his defense or hers, Rickon is unsure. Regardless of the wolf’s intention, it snaps them both out of it and he says “I am so sorry,” in a rush, releasing her immediately, taking a step back, and she holds her wrist to her chest, staring at him. “I meant no offense, I promise you, I only- I just- you didn’t- you should lock your door,” he finishes lamely.

Rickon turns from her, mind reeling. He had all of that strange ale, that concoction, and the news Howland gave him has muddled his mind. _What are you doing here,_ he asks himself, wondering at how far he’s let himself sink into this role as her protector, her escort, her shield, and yet here he is, as slithering and slinking as a Skagosi in her bedchambers at night.  “Gods, I am so sorry,” he whispers, walking to her door. “Please forgive me. Shaggydog, stay,” he commands, and sweeps from the room, shutting the door behind him. He leans against the door, chest heaving, and his heart sinks low in his belly when, soft as the tapping of nails against a window pane, he hears the bolt slide, slowly, into place behind him, keeping him out with the rest of the villains. Rickon closes his eyes and curses himself before pushing off of the door and returning to his room before the maid finds him and scolds him for confirming her suspicions of his character.

 

Shireen’s heart pounds, and her fingers tremble when she does as he asked, locking the door before resting her forehead briefly against the wooden grains of the door. She can still feel his hand around her wrist, the power he used to stop her from hitting him, and then she moves away from the door, a hand over her mouth; she is mortified that she raised her hand against him, that she fully intended to strike him across the face, the would-be lord of Winterfell, the man who swore an oath to protect her, the man who stole her away from a doomed battle.

As exhausted as she was she cannot return to her bed - _He saw me in there -_ and so she paces while Shaggydog sits by the door, as if to keep them from each other, watching her with his green eyes.  _Green like_   _Rickon’s eyes,_  she thinks, and then she remembers that grin on his face as she stood in front of him in her nightgown and cloak, the grin of a wolf, and she shivers, though her room is warm. “I should apologize to him,” she whispers to no one, to the wolf perhaps, but then her anger sparks again as she paces, as she reminds herself that he stormed into  _her_  rooms unannounced while she lay in bed, as if he had every right.

It takes her several minutes to calm down, and when she does, when her heart has stopped its hammering and mind has stopped racing, she feels as wrung out as a rag. She drops her cloak in the chair by the hearth and climbs back into bed, chilly now that the fire is so low, and pulls the covers up around her as if to insulate her from what has transpired tonight. Shaggydog is a massive beast, but not too big to lie beside her on the generously sized mattress, and so she calls the wolf up on her bed, finding an odd sort of comfort in his presence, in having at least someone here with her while she tries to figure out what has happened between Rickon and her, what restless thing exists there to escalate in such dramatic ways.

She drifts off, the warmth of the wolf making up for the low fire, but when she reaches out in her sleep her fingers sink into Shaggydog’s black fur, and she dreams of combing the leaves from Rickon’s hair, her nails against his skin, how he grips her wrist and pulls her near, and she wakes with a start, her heart a hammer again, her thoughts a blur.

When she wakes the next morning, the direwolf is restless, no longer on the bed but whining and scuffing the door with his great paws. She shushes to him and rises, sweeping the cloak over her shoulders and wrapping it around her before letting the wolf out for his needs and master, but Shaggydog needn’t go far, for Rickon is there, leaning against the wall across from her chamber door. His arms are crossed over his chest and his head his bowed, though it lifts when the door opens, and he pushes off of the wall. He looks a wreck, and she sighs.

“Rickon,” she says, drawing out the last syllable.

“Shireen, please accept my apology. I should not have come in without announcing myself. I know I frightened you,” he starts, but she huffs, incredulous.

“You didn’t _frighten_ me, you _scandalized_ me. Standing there, staring at me with that- that look on your face,” she says, crossing her arms to mirror his.

“I wouldn’t say _staring,_ ” he says, looking taken aback. “I was simply looking at you. You were talking to me, and I was looking at you.”

“Like a wolf looks at a bone,” she snaps, and he sighs.

“You- I- This is impossible, I am here to _apologize,_ ” he says with exasperation. “Besides, you tried to strike me,” he reminds her, and she bites her lip; she hoped he wouldn’t mention that. It is her turn to look chastised.

“I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry for that at least. I, I lost my temper,” she says, but she tosses her hair over her shoulder, somewhat defiant, and his eyes lower, watching her hair move, following its circuit around the cap of her shoulder, the swing of it, to and fro behind her back. She frowns but then it’s over, and he snaps out of it.

“’Ours is the fury,’” he murmurs, bringing his gaze back to hers. “If only forgiveness was.” She opens her mouth to debate him but he takes a step towards her. “Shireen, if I looked at you wrongly, if I offended you with some slip, some rudeness, please accept my apology. I will never barge into your room like that again. I will respect your privacy.”

“Thank you,” she says, lifting her chin with a sniff.

“But your father and his Hand will have my hide if he finds out I’m not doing what I swore to do,” he says, taking another step forward, forcing her to crane her neck to maintain eye contact, and she knows he does it on purpose. “So please, for the love of the gods, old and new, keep your door locked, whenever we are so blessed to protect you with one.”

“Fine,” she snaps, daring to step into him and poke the center of his chest with a forefinger. “But _you_ keep your wolf smiles to yourself, and your eyes where they belong,” and she spins on her heel, nightgown and cloak a swirl around her ankles, making sure her hair whirls out like an open fan before closing the door to her room.


	5. Chapter 5

They do not leave until the following day; Shireen sticks to the keep, and Rickon sees her flitting to and fro from her chambers to Meera’s, arms full of clothes, Nina trailing her with a needle and thread pursed between her lips and an exasperated look on her face. Howland is generous with Rickon, finding daggers for them both, two bows and two quivers full of arrows. Their saddlebags are fit to burst with salted meats and fish, hard cheeses, small wrinkled apples and several more pouches of nuts and dried berries. As Rickon knows well enough, the weather will only get rougher from here, and so they are gifted with furs for their shoulders and deer hides for their laps, bedrolls and blankets to drape over their mounts’ bodies. He spends all day gathering these supplies, accepting them effusively; he knows it is thanks to his father’s name, the mantle of Stark that he eternally wears, and seeing the generosity of the crannogmen, these men who do it all out of loyalty to the Starks and to the North makes him want to be a better man, makes him want to fill the shoes Eddard wore before him.

He does not see her until they sup for the last time at Howland’s table, a fine, rare feast of venison, and he stands when he sees her stride in, Meera at her side. She is in one of her fine dresses, a midnight blue embroidered with silver thread, cut lower in the southern trend, but this gown has clearly been altered; it is slit, from hem to the base of her bodice, where the laces are, and her split skirts billow as she walks, revealing slender legs encased in a pair of black breeches and knee high leather boots. She is half lady, half soldier, part goddess, part huntress, and it takes his breath away. Her hair is loose, not even a braid to keep it from her eyes, though the waves throughout its length suggest it was braided before. There is a triumphant look in her eye when she approaches the table, nodding first to Howland and then to Rickon, who realizes when her triumph melts to amusement that his mouth is hanging open.

“I told you he’d like it,” Meera murmurs to her, and Howland and Shireen laugh as he snaps his jaw shut and glares at her. “The practicality of it, I mean, Lord Stark,” she quips, and he rolls his eyes with a snort of laughter.

It’s hard for him to keep his eyes from her; last night’s would-be slap and this transformative attire make him regard her differently, as if he can see her teeth now, knows she can bite as decisively as he. His curiosity is stoked, he wants to ask her questions but knows not what he’d even say, were there no Lord of Greywater between them to stunt the conversation. The light from the fire behind them puts lick of orange and yellow on the black of her hair, flame on a nighttime river, and from the candles on the table and the braziers throughout the room there is a warmth in her pale skin; she is on Howland’s left and so he sees only the unaffected side of her face, though if he had his way he’d see both sides of her. It makes him wonder if the greyscale is there to remind the world that there are two sides to Shireen Baratheon, that it would do best to not take either for granted. At just that moment she turns to look at him, a question in her eyes, and his opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out except his breath.

“Rickon? Have we lost you, man?” Brinn asks from the opposite side of Shireen, and Rickon blinks, looks to Meera’s husband, and realizes all eyes are on him, realizes someone has asked him something while he sits there staring at her like a fool. He clears his throat.

“Apologies, Brinn, my thoughts were on the journey. I do not look forward to the kingsroad.”

Brinn looks amused and Rickon curses inwardly for being such an idiot here where his hosts are so sharp eyed and quick witted. He is sure there will be a joke at his expense, but Shireen smiles suddenly, and covers for him.

“They were asking about the sail to Skagos, Rickon,” she says, and she arches a brow, ever so slightly at him, and now he knows she’s got the upper hand on him, that she is well aware. “As you’ve done it and few have ever tried.”

“Ah,” he says, averting his eyes, studying his venison with immense interest as he slices into it. “There will be little joy to be found in the journey, even more so now that winter has arrived.”

“’Winter is coming’ as your House reminds us, and now everyone knows the Starks have the right of it,” Howland says with a small smile.

“Aye,” Rickon says quietly. “Although I suppose a different sort of winter hit us all 10 years ago.”

“I’d raise a toast then, if you won’t mind,” and Rickon shakes his head _no, no I wouldn’t_ , already aware of who will be honored, and he lifts his cup with the rest of the table. “To Eddard Stark. Catelyn Stark. Robb Stark. Sansa, Arya and Bran, may they gods find them whole.”

They toast and drink, and when they swallow the ale, Rickon raises his cup once more. “To Jojen Reed and Stannis Baratheon, may the gods find them whole,” he says, and Meera ducks her head after she drinks, and there are a few moments of sorrowful silence as everyone loses themselves in memories full of those whom they toast, those whom they miss.

“That was kind of you, to add my father and Howland’s son during the toasts at dinner,” Shireen says to him as he escorts her back to their rooms after the meal so they can both get as much sleep as possible. They will leave just after dawn, and will travel through the remainder of the Neck by day, but once past Moat Cailin they will force themselves on through the night, and will sleep through daylight hours as another cloak of discretion.

Rickon shrugs as a reply, but then adds “I’m not _all_ scandalous barbarian, princess,” as a soft-edged quip, and to his relief she huffs a laugh and smiles.

“Shocked as _I_ am to hear it, still, I thank you for it. I think about him all the time. I’m so scared they will hang him,” she says, and before he knows what is happening she stops, her face in her hands, the muffled sounds of crying leaking from between her fingers. Rickon is aghast and knows not what to do. Shireen stands there in her remarkable dress, her loose hair slipping from her shoulders to shroud her face, and she is completely closed off to him. But then he remembers their first talk, how just being there is a comfort to friends, so he says nothing, but he tentatively brushes the rest of her hair from her back and slips his hand across the blades of her shoulders, his forearm to follow, and he pulls her towards him. Comfort. A hug, one he hopes she does not misinterpret as an assault.

He is in luck; she does not snap and bare her teeth like she did the previous night but turns into him, burying her face against him, hands pressing to his chest on either side of her face, and without thinking he draws his other arm around her and holds her close, his chin resting on the back of her bowed head as she sobs against his doublet, as he feels her ribs expand and constrict with the intensity of her cries. He doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point she has her arms around him as well and his hand is smoothing her hair against the back of her head, over and over, and he murmurs _Shhh_ and _It’s okay_ and _I’ve got you,_ and they fill the space of the narrow hallway with the sounds of sorrow and tears, comfort and soft words. _And something else, I fear¸_ he thinks to himself, but he closes his eyes and ignores it as best he can.

 

Shireen slows and then stops crying at some point, but her breath hitches with each inhale, so ragged her sobbing has left her, and she finds that she is more than a little reluctant to pull away from him so soon. She tells herself it is because this is the first tender contact she has had with anyone in a long time, even before her father was taken, as he is a stoic man and not prone to fanciful affections, but even as she thinks it, she wonders if she is lying to herself. For a wildling man, a soldier who never trained as a knight but honed his skill in blood and fear on the battlefields as a child, he soothes her with apparent ease, his hand a lightweight presence against her hair and his arms protective and gentle in an embrace that is caring but not lascivious. And then she thinks of him in _that_ capacity, and suddenly she stirs in his arms, a flare of nerves and confusing warmth, and once again her heart is beating like the wings of a bird in a storm.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” she gusts out on the tail end of an exhale, pulling her head back. Rickon draws his head back and tucks his chin to regard her as she eases away from his chest. She feels a thrill when she realizes there is reluctance in his arms to release her, and as she lifts her eyes up to his, they still only partly let her go, still maintain the lightest of embraces. It dawns on her that her arms are around him too, though she has no recollection of doing that.

“You keep apologizing for the smallest things,” he says, voice rough in its whisper. “With what has happened, you’ve been very- you’ve been brave. I’ve only seen you cry once before.”

“And you’ve done a far better job of this go round than the previous,” she says with a watery smile, and when he chuckles she can feel it as they are still pressed ever so lightly together.

“I suppose I have, but then, we are friends now, are we not? Despite my wolf smiles and my poor manners?”

“Yes, we are,” she smiles. “In spite of those things.”

They come apart awkwardly in small, stuttering increments, an inch here, an inch there, until they stand a couple of feet apart, though it feels like leagues between them now, after having been so close just moments before. Rickon rubs the nape of his neck and Shireen brushes her split skirts as if to smooth nonexistent wrinkles, and then they both chuckle, jangling, unsure laughter ricocheting off the stone walls around them.

“I forget myself,” Rickon says, “We were on our way to bed. Not- wait, I meant, no, wait.”

“I know what you meant,” Shireen says. Before she would have jested with him, at his expense, perhaps how Meera would have, but she cannot find the gumption now, only presses a hand to her nervous stomach, realizes he is looking at her. She looks up at him and he drops his eyes immediately, but he holds out the crook of his elbow, and for the first time he escorts her truly, as a knight would, perhaps, as her father _did,_ whenever he would walk with her around camp. So she slips her hand into the space he proffers and in silence they travel the length of the hallway, stopping in front of her door, where only that morning they had their second altercation. _How quickly things change_ , she thinks with the ghost of smile.

“Good night,” Rickon says, in his slow, deep way. “I hope you are able to rest, get some sleep. We’ve a long day ahead of us, come morning.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she says, her back pressed to her chamber door. “I think what I need most is just some good, dreamless sleep. I shall be perfectly, wonderfully energized tomorrow, I assure you,” and her words make him smile, and that makes her happy, she realizes, to see it.

“A welcome sight,” he says, and his hand lifts, halfway up, but then it drops again, and he steps, backwards, twice towards his own door, before nodding to her and turning away. She opens her door and closes it, hand hovering over the latch, wondering if maybe, maybe he’d come to her room again, wondering if he’d hear whether or not she locks her door, if he would admonish her once more. But she curses herself for being such a fool and slides the bolt across the door, feeling for all in the world like a stupid girl with a head full of nonsense. _He thinks me brave, though,_ she thinks, biting her lip through a smile as she dresses for bed. _And I think he loves my hair._

 

Though Greywater Watch is scarcely full of residents or household staff, it is all a bustle after the sun rises, pale as it is filtered through clouds and tree canopy. The horses are groomed and saddled while Rickon and Shireen break their fasts, Shaggydog gnawing on a meat bone from last night’s meal beneath the table, the motion of his working jaws bumping Rickon’s foot. They sit side by side for the first time, as Howland has not yet come down, but they also sit in silence. He is more than aware of how his body has a memory of hers, how his arms remember her, the caps of her shoulders pressed into his biceps, the press of her cheek to his chest, the silk of her hair beneath, and getting caught in, the scruff of his chin. It makes him fidget in his chair, makes him worry the tousle of hair at the nape of his neck with his fingers. It makes him feel like an idiot.

Shireen is a perfect picture of serenity, though she looks well enough, not at all like she cried herself ragged the night before, and once more she impresses him with her brand of fortitude, though today he is also embarrassed by it, for whatever strength she possesses, he does not seem to have the same, not on this morning.

“Did you sleep w-” he starts.

“Yes,” she says, all too quickly, and now Rickon is smiling, looking sideways to her. He is on her left today and he studies the greyscale, fleetingly, ever fascinated by it, and she glances to him with a smile. “Yes, thank you, I did,” she says more evenly.

“Good,” he replies, and attacks his breakfast with more vigor than he had before.

After their meal it is all business, and as they walk out into the yard, Rickon looks around, frowning, unable to find Howland anywhere. They must needs press on, and quickly, but he is very reluctant to leave without bidding his host farewell, and there is also the issue of the letter. But he is not kept waiting for long, as Howland strides into the yard from his keep, a piece of parchment rolled up and sealed with the Reed sigil. Shireen looks on with curiosity, though she does not ask questions, as Howland hands over the scroll. Rickon ghosts his thumb over the seal, the lizard-lion raised in the green wax and nods to Howland, who returns the gesture before embracing Rickon as he would a family member or dear friend, and Rickon hugs him back with sincerity. Meera and Brinn come out to say goodbye, and the heir of Greywater hugs Shireen; they have become close and Rickon knows they will miss one another; he wonders if they will ever see each other again.

Brinn ferries them across and walks them down the path towards the kingsroad, Shireen, Rickon and Shaggydog following along single file.

“You will not see us as you traverse the causeway, but know that we will be there, watching. If you run into any trouble, we will come to your aid. But once you pass Moat Cailin, our jurisdiction ends and you will be on your own.”

“Aye,” Rickon says with a nod, and his head is filled with perilous scenarios and bloodshed.

Once they reach the road, which is as deserted and desolate as to be expected, this deep in the Neck with winter upon them, Brinn bows his head to Shireen and offers his hand to Rickon, who grips it firmly.

“Farewell, Stark, Princess. Ride safely and may the gods guide you,” Brinn says, stepping back into the underbrush and line of trees, and just like that the crannogman disappears as if he melts into the very earth. Shireen glances back to Rickon, eyebrows raised.

“That’s impressive,” she says, and he chuckles, kicking his horse forward so they can ride abreast. They have not ridden on the road since they first approached the swamplands, and it feels strange to him, and when he brings it up Shireen agrees. “It was beginning to feel like home, tucked away and hidden in there as we were,” she says.

“It did. It is its own world and we were allowed in it for a short while, and it is a shame we must leave, but leave we must.”

“I wish we didn’t have to,” Shireen says, and he grins.

“Still frightened of Skagos?”

“Is it so obvious?” she asks, looking at him with a smile. He nods. “I know you lived there, and I know you survived it, and even miss it, but it is just so… It’s so utterly at the edge of the world I know. I have been to the Wall, I have stayed at Castle Black, but even that is _nothing_ compared to that island.” He cannot stop grinning, even as she talks, and finally she looks at him, annoyed. “What can be so funny?”

“You have been thrown into chaos for little more than a week and yet here you are, a bow and quiver on your back, a dagger in your boot, in breeches astride a horse you named Fury. I think you underestimate yourself. By the time we step foot on the shores of Skagos, you will be more formidable than even the head of House Magnar.”

Shireen shivers, though she smiles brightly enough at his compliments, looking down as he lists the changes in her appearance. “Magnar. They say the Night’s King was a Magnar.”

“If anyone could be the Night’s King, it’d be them,” he says darkly, and laughs outright at the shocked look she gives her.

They continue on with this easy banter for several miles, Shaggydog loping along at times, dipping into the trees at others, and stop for a midday meal to give their horses a rest and their legs a stretch, standing in close quarters hidden amongst the trees, his direwolf panting as he rests on his side. Rickon uses his knife to shear off slices of hard cheese, offering one to Shireen before eating another off the blade, back and forth until they eat their fill. He is returning the foodstuff to his saddlebag when there is the steady sound of hoof beets, the clank of armor, the buzz of conversation.

“Rickon,” Shireen breathes, her fingers gripping his forearm through the leather vambrace. “Rickon.”

“Shh,” he urges, a finger to his lips as they stare at each other. Shaggydog sits up, ears back with a low growl against his teeth, but Rickon silences him as well. He steps in front of Shireen, hiding her with his body, right arm around her back as he slowly, silently, eases his sword from its sheath.

The noises of this mystery party gain in volume, and now they can hear distinct voices. There is a rough, grating voice of what Rickon can only assume is a large man, which sets his heart to racing, and judging by the different cadences and timbres, at least a dozen other men. He cannot fight them, can only hope they pass them by unawares, but then he hears the soft lilt of a woman’s voice, and now in addition to fear Rickon also feels confusion. What party of men rides with a woman?

They near, and now, a dozen paces down the road he can discern shapes through the trees. Indeed at the head there is a large man and beside him a lady with long dark hair and a smile. _What is this madness,_ he thinks, but then Shaggydog is a whining nuisance, and Rickon has to grip the wolf by his scruff to keep the wolf from bounding into the road. The party stops, swords bouncing against saddles. The men and woman stop, staring into the woods and Rickon is sure they stare right at him. He curses under his breath, and then he catches the eye of the woman, and his breath is stolen away; he would recognize those eyes anywhere.

He steps forward but Shireen clings to him, hissing his name against his back. He half turns with a smile, places his hand on her upper arm as reassurance. “It’s all right,” he whispers. “That is my sister.” Rickon lets go of his wolf, who makes a beeline for the woman, and he grasps Shireen by the hand, leading her to the road where he stands in front of the woman with Tully blue eyes, and she gasps.

“R-Rickon? Is that truly you?” She asks with a furrowed brow.

“Sansa,” he smiles, face to face with family for the first time in over ten years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SANSAN FINALLY UGH


	6. Chapter 6

Swords are half drawn when he pulls Shireen by the hand, fingers entwined with hers, onto the causeway, but when the direwolf snuffles and licks at the outstretched hand of their lady, when Rickon greets the woman with sapphire eyes by her name, when she knows his, the hilts meet their scabbards once more and all men save one look at each other in mystified confusion. The only one who seems to understand cuts a formidable figure on his huge black warhorse, but even after he dismounts, coming around to the woman Sansa’s horse, he is still a handful of inches taller than Rickon, who takes a step back reflexively at the man’s approach, and Shireen can see why.

Half his face is a mess of angry scars that even Shireen winces at when he comes closer, and his stoicism can be easily read as resignation to that sort of reaction, one she instantly regrets considering what she has in common with him. She watches his expression soften when he reaches for Sansa’s waist, plucking her from her horse as a child plucks a berry from a bush, and her woman’s eyes catch a tender look between them before Sansa exhales like a girl and rushes to Rickon, throwing her arms around him.

Shireen feels awkward and out of place, standing in the road, one woman on foot versus nearly a dozen mounted men, with this touching reunion taking place between them. She’s only been on the road with him for a week but already she feels oddly possessive of Rickon, and though she is _beyond happy_ for him in this moment, it also makes her feel more alone than ever before. Her eyes move from the siblings’ embrace to the scarred man and his eyes are already on her; he’d be handsome if not for those scars, but then, she’d be beautiful if not for her greyscale. She nods once to him in understanding, and after a moment he nods back, and they both look to the Starks, who are holding each other at arm’s length, talking and smiling.

“Where have you _been_ this entire time? Ten years, Sansa, you disappeared from the world.”

“I was hidden away in the Vale, but that’s- well, that’s a long story, Rickon,” she says, with a fond glance over her shoulder to Sandor. He does not move, but Shireen sees what she needs to in his eyes, the way they’re on her, the way his body is angled towards her. “What about _you?”_

“I fought these last seven years for King Stannis, and left the battlefield a week ago when he was imprisoned.” Here he remembers her, and walks to Shireen, eyes brighter than she has ever seen; she knows it’s his sister, this unexpected meeting that has him so lighthearted, but still, he aims his happy gaze to her, warming her with it, and lightly presses her forward with a hand to the small of her back. “This is his daughter, Shireen Baratheon. Ser Davos, Hand of the King, charged me with taking her to safety. You meet us on our way.”

Sansa steps forward and clasps her hand between hers, smiling warmly though her words are full of apology for her father’s current peril, and turns proud eyes back to her youngest brother. “We are on our way to Winterfell,” Sansa says, her lilting voice edged with the fierceness that always lingers on the surface of her brother’s mannerisms.

“Winterfell,” Rickon murmurs with fondness, but also with the fog of distance, of sadness, of loss. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Shireen’s father liberated the Stark seat years ago, annihilating the Boltons who occupied it, but Rickon chose to leave it behind. Shireen remembers the confusion of that moment when Rickon all but gave up his namesake; he had been but 14, still savage from a wildling life, no more capable of ruling than reading.

“I don’t know where you’re headed but at least until the Barrowlands, we have to share the road, so let us ride together,” and Rickon laughs when she does not wait for her brother’s answer, only pulls him in for another hug.

He retrieves their horses from beyond the trees and offers Shireen a step up into the saddle, one she brushes off as kindly as she can, though he still stands beside her until she’s mounted before getting on his own horse. Introductions are made; the man who rides on Sansa’s right is Sandor Clegane, and Sansa rushes past Rickon’s startled interruption to hear _that_ name, and goes on to introduce the rest of the men behind her, who make up the Brotherhood without Banners. She hears a flurry of names like Harwin and Gendry and Lem, Podrick and Hyle and Ned, and is shocked to realize that one of the larger men is actually a woman named Brienne, riding beside a one handed man who only utters that his name is Jay.

They ride on until sundown, Shireen just behind Rickon so that he can ride beside Sansa, and Shireen does not know what to do with her jealousy, only knows that it’s there, a twist of different reasons fused together. Sansa is so beautiful, and she knows Rickon shares his handsomeness with her, something Shireen will never have, never match. Sandor looks at the Lady Stark with such love, evident even past the scars and rough look of foreboding he has about him. And then the worst reason, the one that makes her feel cruel and bitter: Rickon is no longer alone like she is, and that makes her feel all the more alienated. She reminds herself that both of his parents are deceased, that there is still a chance for her father, that a single relative is as much as she has, but she is a little cloud of gloom on her nut brown horse, and when the clouds scud overhead and threaten more snow, she pulls her furs more tightly round herself, hunches her shoulders and keeps her head down; weather to fit her mood.

But when they find a clearing big enough for their large party, dry enough too as they’re still in Howland’s marshy domain, Rickon is there by her side once more. She can’t help but smile when he seems to forget her earlier desire to take care of such things on her own, and lifts his hands to offer her help dismounting from Fury’s back. She accepts him, places her hands on his shoulders when he takes her by the waist, giving her an easy grin. _He is so happy right now,_ she thinks, and watches him busy himself about camp, tying the horses, tending to her and to his sister.

“Shireen, please come sit next to me by the fire,” Sansa asks after everyone is settled; the various men ( _and woman_ , she reminds herself) of the Brotherhood set up small single- and two-men tents, while Rickon uses their deer hides and bedrolls to set up similar shelters side by side; there is brief talk of hunting but the sun has gone, leaving only the faintest of residual light and so it is dried meat and hard bread for their supper, though they are all warmed with wineskins passed around. Shireen is grateful for Sansa’s invitation, for nearly all the others regard her with trepidation, suspicion, fear, and once more she feels acutely sorry for how she flinched at Sandor’s scars.

And _that_ is an interesting thing, how closely he sits with Sansa, how _she_ , beautiful thing, is utterly unafraid, unruffled by his affliction. He returns to her side when his tasks are completed, breaks apart the heels of bread for her with his thick fingers, and she drizzles wine on them to soften the stale pieces and together they eat in this intimate way.

“So, Shireen, you have truly traveled with my brother these past seven years?” Sansa asks, shaking her head in disbelief and wonderment.

“I have, since Ser Davos returned with him from S- from hiding. My father needed a Stark to help rally the North against the Boltons, and it worked. We took it back in its entirety in less than three years. Winterfell was left to the inhabitants of Winter Town, but we made sure there were none left to try and recapture it from us,” she says, taking the offer of wine from a man with black hair and blue eyes when he sits a little ways away to her right; she double takes, for he looks so like her uncle Renly that she cannot help but stare.

He smiles shyly and then there is Rickon, dropping a fur to the ground between them and lowering himself onto it with not so much as a grunt of greeting. He lifts the wineskin gently from her fingers, swigging it with a glance to the black haired man before returning it to her hand. Shireen ducks her head to hide a smile before passing the wine to Sansa, and when she lifts her eyes to her, the older woman is looking at her too keenly to have missed that moment. She flicks her eyes nervously to Sandor, who looks at her, too, but with the first smile she’s seen out of him since meeting him.

 

“Do you plan on sitting Winterfell as its requisite Stark, sister?” Rickon asks, tearing apart a long piece of salt beef, handing half to Shireen before biting into the other strip.

“I do,” she says, and he regards his sister with frank amazement. Here is the girl, a woman grown now, full of reclaiming home and the North where once her head was only full of daydreams and impossibilities. She is as fine boned and lovely as when she was a girl of 18, headed for King’s Landing, but there is a wisdom and cunning in her eyes; he’s proud to be her brother. They may look as Tully as their mother once did, but they are _Starks_ and for once, Rickon thinks he may understand what that means.

“And how did you come to the Vale? How did you leave it? Why did you stay hidden for so long?”

Sansa bites her lip, the first sign of insecurity since first laying eyes on her, and then Clegane’s hand covers both of hers though they are clasped in her lap. It is shockingly familiar, speaks far more of the nature of their relationship than any word could, and Rickon is floored. He glances around; no one else pays it any mind. His sister is eight years his senior, and given his rough upbringing he’s in no place to admonish anyone, but still it’s a strange thing to see his sister so comforted by such a gruff looking man, who looks nothing like the knights she sang about.

_Ten years is a long time._

“I fled King’s Landing a long time ago, and to save me, mother’s friend Lord Baelish took me to the Vale, to hide under his and our aunt Lysa’s protection,” Sansa begins, and Rickon listens, mortified, as Sansa tells him of murders and intrigue, grooming and abuse. Sandor’s role becomes more and more clear in her liberation, and it is not long before Sansa is flush against his side, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow. He is ever silent but ever gentle, ever attentive, and Rickon cannot seem to hide his confusion.

“Sandor and I have history together, Rickon. He tried once to save me and I was too scared to accept it. When he heard tale of me at the Eyrie, he came again to me, determined not to fail this time.” The look his sister gives to this man is enough to thaw even Rickon’s warrior heart, and before he can help himself he’s glancing to Shireen, who is smiling faintly at the two of them. His eyes roam her face a moment before he looks back to his sister.

“The reason we didn’t try to kill Clegane all over again is due to your sister here,” says the man named Harwin, and Rickon looks at him. “That and we thought we were looking at another one raised from the dead,” he says with a _hic_ that prompts Brienne to snatch away the wine, giving him a scowl before chucking it to the ground.

“Raised dead?” Shireen asks with a frown to Rickon, who shrugs and looks to Sansa. She smiles sadly.

“Oh, baby brother,” she whispers.

He storms off into the swampy muck a ways after snatching the discarded wineskin, cursing under his breath after learning the fate of his lady mother, wondering why in seven hells this has happened to them, why they have been so brutally punished by both gods and men. Two of his family beheaded, one head traded for a wolf’s, the other on a spike in the south where no Stark ever belonged, and now to hear of his mother, her own head nearly removed from so brutal a wound, and then raised from a watery grave.

“Rickon?” a woman’s voice says, and it’s so new to his ears that it takes him a moment to realize it’s his sister, a torch in hand as she comes to find him.

“Here,” he says bitterly, blinking owlishly as the firelight comes closer, blinding him momentarily as he stands in the dark.

“I’m sorry, but at least she’s at peace now. I hate having to tell you, but I won’t lie to you. I may have once upon a time, but not anymore.”

“I just wish it didn’t require a lie to make it easier to stomach,” he says, swigging from the skin.

“That’s living, I suppose,” Sansa says, hugging herself with an arm as she holds the torch up between them. “Come back to the fire, it’s cold out here and we all need to get some rest.” He takes the torch from her and offers her his free arm, which she takes with a smile. “So, you’re sweeping a princess away to safety, hmm?”

“Aye. Sounds like something you’d weave into tapestry half a lifetime ago,” he says, half humored, half saddened.

“She seems very nice,” Sansa says lightly. “Quite lovely, really,” and Rickon rolls his eyes.

“Yes, she is, but I swore an oath to do this, to the Hand of the King. To her father’s closest friend, and therefore to her father. It’s my duty, not my – not because – not because of any ulterior motive,” he finishes finally, but Sansa shrugs. She is so cavalier now, where once she had been so rigid from propriety.

“Duty and love, aren’t those the same things?”

“The realm was once torn apart by a king who was clearly split between those,” he reminds her.

“Good thing you’re not king, then, hmm?”

“Especially now there’re dragons,” he says dryly. He stops her when they see the flicker of camp fire through the trees. “Sansa, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you. I- I thought I was the only one left,” he says, voice cracking with unshed tears, tears he hasn’t cried since Osha and he left Bran, Hodor and the Reeds a decade before. Sansa embraces him tightly, a hand smoothing the auburn tousle of his hair and he is reminded instantly of Shireen combing leaves from it, and he must draw away, clearing his throat.

They return to camp, where Shireen still sits beside the black haired man. He says something and she laughs, a soft bubble of feminine voice, and Rickon narrows his eyes. “Who _is_ he?” Rickon snaps, looking to his sister, who only seems deeply amused. It only serves to further annoy him.

“His name is Gendry,” Sansa says quietly. “He’s a good man, a kind man who saved Brienne’s life, and you’d do well to make a friend of him. Don’t forget, either, that he serves your sister, Lady of Winterfell,” she says, putting on airs and lifting her chin haughtily, and Rickon laughs despite himself. They return the fireside, and he stops at his bag of food to share the dried fruit and nuts amongst them all, and in turn some of the others dip into their own stores to make brothers and sisters of them through generosity and trust.

Snow falls in earnest and the men turn in, burrowing into their small, narrow tents, little more than spare blankets strung up on branches propped up as lean-tos. Shireen shivers and he fetches one of his furs for her, which she takes with a grateful smile, withdrawing to her own little tent that he put beside his. Rickon watches her, eyes possessive as he catalogues this Gendry’s whereabouts. For the first time Sandor makes a noise, snorting with a laugh before he stands, offering Sansa his hand, which she takes and Sandor places it in the crook of his elbow, his hand resting on top of it.

“Looks as if someone didn’t eat enough for his dinner, little bird, to see how hungrily he eyes the Baratheon doe,” Sandor says, his voice low and rough, and to RIckon's horror his sister merely laughs, kisses him on his scars.

“I tried to tell him, love,” and she raises her eyebrows when Rickon’s jaw drops at her informality, her forwardness, but then they’re both crouching low to crawl into one tent together, and Rickon is left alone to stare, disbelieving, into the dying fire. Shaggydog emerges from nowhere and sits with him a while as he finishes the wineskin and makes himself drunk, but then it’s cold even to Rickon, and he snake-bellies into his own tent, wolf stretching out by the embers of the fire. _Duty and love,_ he thinks to himself, thoughts swimming in wine. _Rhaegar tore apart the realm for one because he ignored the other,_ but then Sansa’s words float back to him, and he falls asleep dreaming of wildling love and law, of stealing a woman and never bringing her back.

 

She wakes up chilled to the core, despite the extra fur Rickon gave her, despite going to bed in every scrap of clothing she wore that day, and when she peers out past the little deer hide flap she sees it’s still pitch black outside, that dawn is far from here. The coldest part of night awaits her, the coldest part of the _realm_ awaits her as her new home, a rough and frigid isle in the middle of a rough and frigid sea. She shivers uncontrollably now as if she has beckoned the chill of Skagos to wrap her up and freeze her to death before she even is truly north.

“To hells with this,” she chatters, and before Shireen can talk herself out of it, can think sensibly enough to seek out Sansa or Brienne in their own tents, and curl up with them, the proper thing to do, she is crawling out of her tent, dragging her blankets and fur behind her, wriggling into Rickon’s space. The moment she’s in his tent she can feel the difference of heat, and not for the first time she marvels at the thickness of the northernmen’s blood and how they all seem to generate their own warmth. With an ill-concealed sigh of happiness she squirms under his own blankets, dragging hers on top, and burrows in close to him, her back against his chest. He radiates _warmth_ , his heartbeat is calm and strong, and his breathing is slow and steady in slumber. Shireen is already half-lulled to sleep by these when he stirs.

Rickon’s arm snakes around her waist, cinching tight to pull her closer, his forearm just beneath her breasts. He inhales deeply and his chest rumbles against her spine when he speaks. “I must be dreaming,” he says, voice a low tumble in her ear, and Shireen can do nothing but swallow her heart that leapt into her throat at his words.

“Maybe,” she says finally, and he sighs in response, bending his knees into hers, burying his face in her hair. When he moves the arm from around her she wants to cry out _No_ and make him come back, but he simply pushes the hair off her neck, away from his mouth before pulling her back against him with twice as strong a grip, his fingers sliding between her side and the fur beneath them. When he presses three slow, drowsy kisses to her neck, the scruff of his chin rasping against her like the tongue of a cat, and she gasps, he hums with satisfaction.

“Good dream, then,” he mumbles against her skin, and says no more for the rest of the night, though she is a roil of feelings that she now knows are things like arousal and want, spikes of heat between her legs and just beneath her ribcage, and though she’s warm at last, cocooned as she is in Rickon’s arms and his bed, sleep is simply impossible.


	7. Chapter 7

When the first frosty, spindly fingers of a winter dawn wake him, he comes to with a start and hisses a breath of surprise, drawing away from the warmth of a woman’s body,  _her_ body.   _Fucking hells, all that wine,_  he thinks, wondering how he got into her tent without tearing it down in the process. He props himself up on his elbow and in that allotment of space she twists to her back, sweeping a thumb and forefinger across her eyes towards the bridge of her nose, and blinks up at him. He is beyond confusion, for she does not scowl or slap him or claw out his eyes, but smiles somewhat sheepishly, while he is full of memories of how enraged she was when he barged in her room at Greywater, and suddenly he remembers  _kisses._ Dark things, small, languid, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gods, Shireen, what have I -”

“Don’t, Rickon. You didn’t do anything. I came in here on my own. I was too cold by myself.”

“And I didn’t- I didn’t  _do_  anything?” She closes her eyes, and he is mortified now, but then she laughs a bit, shakes her head.

“I think I um, I think I startled you a little, but you went right back to sleep. I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t wildly inappropriate, it’s just too cold,” she says.  _Kisses, though_ , he thinks, and he wants to rub his lips with his fingers, he can still feel warm skin there. He wonders where that wine came from, how strong it was to give him such fine dreams. “Do we have to get up yet? It’s still so  _cold_  out. I know, I know, I’ll have to get used to it, I will, I promise.” As he settles back onto the fur, as she turns on her side so he can curl back up against her, he prays to the old gods that she never does.

They do not sleep anymore but talk quietly, and while he keeps his hips away from her, lest he give her  _real_  reason to slap him senseless, his arm is still slung over her, filling the dip of her waist. She asks him if he is all right after hearing of his mother, and he replies as lightly as he can, but keeps nothing from her.

“I used to wonder which member of my family died the worst, which one felt the most pain,” he whispers into her hair, resisting the urge to sweep his fingers from it. There are sounds around them of men rising, horses nickering to their masters, and if Shireen wants to linger for the heat, he wants to linger for an altogether different sort of warmth. So Rickon lets his words fall quietly against the shell of her ear. “Now I know it was my mother,” and when Shireen moves to place a hand over his, pressed as it is against her belly, he closes his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Rickon,” she says.

“It’s okay,” he says, though it isn’t and they both of them know it.

“Shireen? Shireen?” Sansa’s voice is very close to them, to the right of Rickon’s tent where Shireen’s empty one is, and he feels her breath catch, feels her ribs expand and stay that way with a captured, terrified breath. “Oh, gods, she’s not here. Sandor! Where could she have gone?”

“I’ve an idea,” he gruffs from the other side of Rickon’s tent, and Rickon nudges her shoulder with his chin.

“Go on,’ he murmurs in her ear. “Call out, lest they think I’ve got you bound and gagged in here,” and she releases her breath with a high, nervous giggle, as warbling as a young girl’s.

“I’m- I’m here, sorry. I was, I was cold,” she says, and there is a bark of laughter from outside in the cold dawn.

“Aye, bloody freezing, I’ll wager,” he says, sarcasm thick enough to come through the deer hide. Shireen turns in Rickon’s arms to give him a look of righteous indignation.

“I  _was_  freezing, I  _swear_  it,” she says, voice snappish, and Rickon cannot help but laugh, earning him a smack on the arm, which he supposes he deserves.  _There had to be kisses, there_ had _to be._

“I should have just found your sister’s tent,” she pouts, and then Rickon is laughing in earnest, rolling to his back when she squirms away from him to give him one of her storm-blue glowers.

“You would have found it a bit crowded in  _her_ tent,” he whispers. “That I can guarantee,” and she gasps, sitting up beneath the low-slung hide as best she can, turning to look at him with astonishment.

“No, truly?” She flips the hair from her eyes and his gaze follows it, impossible as it is to ignore, dark as the pool beneath the heart tree of Winterfell. That’s a depth of black he’d dive into, and it’s everything to keep his fingers from doing just that.

“Aye, truly,” he says, and she chuckles, but there is a girlish smile on her face, eyes lit with romance. “It would seem my sister has grown into a fine she-wolf. Arya would be proud of such nerve. Here, you’ll freeze,” he says, propping up on an elbow again to tug the blanket off him, and it’s still warm from their shared body heat. She gives him a curious look when he drapes it, one handed, across her shoulders, and she pulls it around herself as if it were a shawl or royal robes, she is so ladylike even sitting half-hunched in a soldier’s tent.

“Thank you,” she says, and she is nearly out of the tent when she turns back. “And thank you for letting me sleep here. I truly did think I’d freeze by myself.”

“We won’t let that happen then, will we?”

Hers is an enigmatic smile, all for him in that small space, before she scoots out completely and the flap falls shut, and Rickon stifles a groan, adjusting himself and waiting as long as he dares before following her into the morning bustle.

He takes her hunting after they roll up their blankets and hides but before they break camp completely; she has not had practice since that afternoon with Meera, and he is determined to teach her some self-reliance, some independence before they reach White Harbor. As little as he minds taking care of her, he knows her chances of thriving on the road, not to mention on Skagos, are vastly improved with a bigger skill set than she currently has.

She wears a dark brown cloak drawn around her like a septon’s robes to hide the exquisite, rich blue of her not-a-dress and is as still as stone beside him as she stands, bow drawn in mirror image of him as they track the movement of a fat rabbit browsing through the dwindling underbrush. Before they even spied it he whispered for her to shoot before he does, and he can just barely hear her draw breath and exhale before loosing the arrow, and Rickon is a second after her. They immediately run side by side towards the prey, and he swears under his breath; her arrow is stuck in the earth behind the still kicking hare, and he swiftly squats down to wring the creature’s neck and put it out of its misery.

“Seven hells,” she says, crouching beside him to wrench her arrow from the damp ground.

“You’ve one day of practice,” he says, “and that was days ago.”

“I meant it for you, since clearly you’re the one who missed,” she quips, and he laughs, easing the dagger from her boot to gut and skin the rabbit.

“Shall we tan this and make fur lined gloves for you, princess?” he jests back, discarding the entrails and picking up the hare by the ears. When he’s done he cleans the blade on the thigh of his breeches and returns it to its sheath still tucked against her calf. He is proud of her when she makes no face, simply picks up the hide, fur-side up and stands with him, returning to the fire and his sister’s men.

As the rabbit cooks and Rickon scrapes clean the rabbit skin, Harwin and Ned return from the other side of the road, three good sized fish dangling from a line, and everyone is able to break their fast on something hot. He notices that now Shireen sits closer to him than she did before their night together, as well as how ill-concealed his sister’s smug look is whenever he happens to catch her eye. Though he would scowl at Meera or anyone else, he simply smiles and shrugs at his dear sister. She is too good for scowling,  _And really, what is there to scowl over?_ He pulls hot fish from its wooden skewer with his fingers, splitting it and offering some to Shireen, who takes it with a happily exclamation, and he watches her, unable to look away, as she licks her fingertips like a wild thing.

 

“Your hair is so curious,” Shireen blurts out, and then claps a gloved hand over her mouth. She and Sansa ride side by side between Sandor and Rickon as the rest of the Brotherhood rides front and rear, and she has just been admiring her companion, though it comes out so  _wrong._  “Oh gods, forgive me, I only meant,” she says, but Sansa laughs, shaking her head.

“It  _is_ curious,” she says, and bends her head to show Shireen the part on the top of her crown where a red, far more vivid than Rickon’s subdued auburn, grows in for a few inches before turning abruptly brown. “It was dyed for a long while, and it’s just now coming out. I’d love to wash it but since we left the Vale, there’s simply not enough time to boil water for it, and heavens save me if I could find soap. We… Well, you heard last night. We left the Eyrie in rather a hurry.” She is so merry, perhaps due to the inclusion of her youngest brother to their party, but in moments like this Shireen can see the profound sadness that seems to plague any surviving Stark.  _Your father is a prisoner,_  she thinks to herself, reminding herself that sorrow belongs to everyone in the seven kingdoms.

“Well if there’s anything I can do to help,” Shireen says of the dark brown hair that looks a mottled red whenever the clouds thin and the sun peeks out, and Sansa smiles.

“If ever we have the opportunity, you’re the first I’ll come to. And speaking of hair, yours is remarkable, it’s so black it nearly shines blue in certain light,” Sansa says, and Shireen steals the quickest of glances to Rickon, who catches that movement and gives her a sly sideways look, and for the first time he confirms her suspicions, nods his head once in agreement with his sister. Shireen’s heart soars.

They plan to eat their midday meal on horseback, but a wet storm that is more sleet and rain than snow drives them off the causeway completely, as deep into the marsh as they dare in order to gain some sort of protection beneath the trees. Where the canopy overhead had protected her and Rickon from snow at the start of their journey, they do less for the rain, as the leaves spill water on them, and rain drips between them incessantly. Everyone’s head is bowed, horse and direwolf, woman and man, and the misery everyone feels is palpable, until finally Ned Dayne throws his head back, whipping a few of them with the excess water flying from his hair, and laughs so hard they all stare at him as if he’s gone mad.  

“Is he drunk?” Podrick hisses to Gendry.

“If he is, I’ll follow those footsteps. I reckon it’s the only way to feel warm.” Shireen smiles at him to hear someone else complain of the chill.

“Nay, not drunk, but to look at all of us, standing here as if were punished children waiting for the sting of mother’s slap is too much,” he says, still laughing. Everyone continues to stare at him and he waves them off. “Oh come on, we can find a better area to wait this whore storm out. We can find some thicker branches to set out on the mud, get these ladies and our own silly hides off the wet ground, and then maybe we can dig a miracle out of our arses and get a fire lit.”

The common sense and refusal to wallow in self-pity is enough to goad everyone to action, and Sansa and Shireen band together, dismounting to seek out anything resembling dry wood or leaves of any sort, and when Rickon and the others, who shout to each other and jape at one another through the murkiness, drag several long boughs of decent thickness together, half the men and Brienne stay to lash other boughs overhead and Sansa and Shireen drape hide and blankets, taken from everyone’s bedrolls, on the branches below to create a crude shelter that is moderately comfortable.

As she knows to expect now, Rickon comes to sit by her side, offering her a skin of wine and salted fish, and the former makes the latter more palatable, as drenched and shivery as she is in the storm. Tireless Dayne and Sandor continue to bring and lay out more branches, making enough room for everyone, and the lean to roof is extended until everyone can sit, dripping and exhausted yet under adequate cover now, while Gendry does his best with the materials at hand and creates a smoking, peaty fire. It is small, but enough for everyone to warm their hands while they warm their bellies with the wine.

The night is a cold, dank, unforgiving one, and when they wake the next morning it is not just Rickon and Shireen who curl up together, but nearly everyone on the lumpy, uncomfortable platform is back to back or back to chest with someone. While Sandor, Harwin and Lem are clearly the oldest of the bunch, every single member of their sad, damp party limps and staggers when they rise, and rub shoulder or back, arm or hip as they try and stamp and rub the blood back into their cold limbs.

“Well that was a fucking nightmare,” Sandor gruffs after several minutes of silence while the hides are brought down and what’s left of the warmish coals is buried in mud, and everyone laughs, their breath misting out in great clouds of white as they haul their tired, sore bodies onto their horses. It is no warmer today, but far drier, and that makes the slow trek out of the swamplands that much easier to handle. The roads are a mess and for many miles anything faster than a trot is a sucking, injury-prone mess, and so mostly they plod on as if they road farm nags instead of coursers.

“To hells with this,” Rickon grunts. “After that wretched night, I want meat, hot and crackling from the fire.” He turns to her, a frown on his face. “Are you all right here, or would you hunt with me?” In truth, while she’d love to go with him, while she knows she should practice, she also is well aware that she’d likely botch any attempt he’d make because she is so tired, so she shakes her head.

“It’s all right; I am sure without me you’ll be far more successful,” she smiles. “And I would ride with your sister a while, if it’s all right.”

“If all of these people are enough to protect your silly old sister, Rickon,” Sansa starts with teasing chastisement, but Rickon waves a hand in the air.

“Fine, fine, I will remain confident in your own men,” he says, glancing to Sandor, who grunts in response. “But send up a call if anything happens,” and to  _that_  his sister’s shield –  _her paramour, s_ he thinks  _–_ gives him a serious look and a sincere nod.

“You’ve my word. I’ll protect the doe as well as the little bird,” he says as Rickon pulls out from the center of the formation and heads up the road ahead of them in an attempt to catch any creature as of yet unaware of their party’s approach.

“She’s wolf as well,” he calls out over his shoulder, and Shireen catches a smile on Sansa’s face while Sandor snorts  _Aye, don’t I know it_. But then Rickon follows up with “Perhaps they both are,” and she bites her lip and looks away to hide her delight.

They ride on a while and as tired as she is, she keeps an eager, alert eye out on the road ahead for Rickon. Sandor rides close enough to his lady that their knees frequently jostle together, and more than once does his hand leave his reins to touch her leg, her wrist, to tug her horse’s reins and draw her closer as if making sure she is real, is no specter. Sansa and she talk of the eldest Stark’s plans for her childhood home. Shireen learns that Harwin was a member of the Stark household long ago, that he had rallied the ragged Brotherhood together and had met Sansa on their own way to Winterfell.

“To be true, my fortunes have changed quite dramatically for the better since leaving the Vale,” Sansa murmurs, and Sandor bows his head in his characteristically quiet manner, listening to her. He seems to carry a great weight on his shoulders where Sansa is concerned, and as attentive as he is, there seems to be sorrow or guilt on the edges of it. Shireen remembers Sansa’s story from two nights ago, how she had refused Sandor’s help, and she wonders how much of that refusal Sandor owns as his own failure. She considers Rickon coming to her tent in the Riverlands, urging her away with him. She shivers, thanks the gods she listened to him.

“You know, Shireen, I thought my chances for a happy future over a long, long time ago,” she says after a while, nonchalance mingling curiously with soberness. “I seem to have found it on the kingsroad, if not a bit before,” she says, her long fingers dancing a moment along her love’s forearm; I have even found my  _family_  here, a long lost brother. Good things happen to Starks when they return to the North,” Sansa smiles. “I think I can say the same for my sibling. I hope I can say the same for you.”

“I doubt I will meet any of my family on this road,” Shireen says with a sad smile. “My mother is dead, my uncles are dead, my father is likely in shackles in the south, if he is not dead as well.”

“Perhaps you’re not thinking broadly enough,” she suggests in her gentle way, leaving Shireen mystified. “Brienne? I would ride with you a moment, if you would have me.” Sansa smiles kindly to Shireen and pulls her horse up, letting the Brotherhood and even Sandor move ahead of her, who frowns at her over his shoulder, disliking the separation though he does not argue. He made a promise to Rickon, after all, and so he plods on beside her, silent as the grave. She fidgets, unsure of whether or not it’s pointless to attempt conversation, and is about to throw caution to the wind and ask a question when there is a curious call from up ahead. Sandor immediately perks up, somber eyes trained on the road up ahead. He bids her stop with a hand in the air, and the entire party jostles to a standstill. The call comes out again and even Shireen can hear how it’s just a shade too unnatural to be any bird. But then she remembers Meera’s whistle that beckoned the ferry of Greywater Watch, and she smiles to the scarred man.

“That’s Rickon,” she says. “I know it is, I know that whistle.”

“Then why does he not come to us?” Sandor says suspiciously, and up ride Sansa, Brienne, Jay and Gendry, Sansa sidling her horse back between Sandor and Shireen’s while the others crowd around them on the edges.

“There must be some reason. Perhaps he took down a creature too large to carry?”

“Or perhaps someone has him and has forced him to lure us into a trap,” Jay says, and Shireen glares at him.

“He is no craven, he’d die before betraying me. Before betraying  _us,_ ” she quickly amends.

“He is also my brother, Jay, you of all people know no Stark quakes at death,” she murmurs, and Shireen is surprised to see how well this admonishment works on him. “I believe Shireen and I trust my brother. Not to mention that this is the Neck and it has  _always_  been loyal to our family,” and here the man Jay’s pride seems to gutter out like a candle flame in a storm, and he merely nods. Brienne leans in and whispers to him, and he mutters something that sounds a lot like  _eternal penance_  but then Sandor kicks his great horse forward and the party follows, Shireen and Sansa right behind his big black warhorse.

 

“I told them it was you,” Shireen says when she sees it is him, mounted and accompanied with his wolf, standing on the edge of the tree line, and there is a fierce sort of pride and triumph in her voice that pleases him more than he’d like to admit.

“I knew you’d remember,” he says fondly. "If I had left the road I would never have found them again." And then he looks to his sister. “We’ve been taken pity upon by the crannogmen,” and then there’s an interesting look Sansa shoots behind her back, and the man known as Jay lifts his hand in the air in surrender before Sansa looks back to him.

“And? Have they seen how pitiful a time we had of it last night?”

“Aye,” Rickon says, moving his horse back on the road to stand beside Fury, and when Grey Wind moves they can see three crannogmen standing a few yards away from the causeway, smiling. 

“There’s a village of sorts half a league in,” one of them suggests. “We’ve room enough to house you and there’s enough dry land for your horses. And the wolf,” he finishes, and Rickon grins.

“We cannot thank you enough,” Sansa breathes, but another man waves her gratitude away.

“You are a Stark and you ride for Winterfell. The Neck has ears,” he says. “We will help you on your way, as we help your brother, who has the blessing of our Lord Reed.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows to him, but he makes an impatient gesture. “I will explain later, once we’re settled. I’ve needs to take you into my confidence,” he murmurs, ignoring when Shireen pins a look on him, ignoring the pang he feels keeping her out of it.

The three crannogmen turn and head into the muddy thicket, picking their way nimbly though they are patient enough for the lumbering horses and unsure men and women who ride them, though Rickon and Shireen lead them on, as comfortable as they are.

“I can see you’re happy to be back in the thick of it out here,” Rickon says to her, and she smiles.

“The thought of a floor of reeds instead of wet branches and mud is more tantalizing than I can even say,” she says as she twists in her saddle to get a skin of water from her saddlebag.

“You’re likely to stay warm well enough on your own tonight, then?” He murmurs, leaning in close, and then the entire party must stop as he dismounts, laughing, to retrieve the water skin that she has dropped to the ground.

Their party is split between three crannogs, none of the homes atop the floating islands those low lying huts of grasses, but all of them more like Junah and Hamil’s, stilted in the water, large, round and made from wooden planks and sturdy logs. There are several more of these houses placed above the water and connected with bridges, with levels even higher up in the trees to reach with ladders, so expansive is this village. Torchlight reflects in the water, making it seem a sort of magical world of water and tree and darkness.

Shireen and Rickon share with Sandor and Sansa, and he sits by the fire, stretching the rabbit skin on a frame leant to him by a crannogman, Sandor beside him as they both of them watch Shireen and Lila, their widowed hostess, wash Sansa’s hair. His sister is seated as straight backed as if on a throne of silver and gold though she sits tailor style on a fur, rushes scattered around her, while Shireen and Lila rub a mixture of herbs and soap into her waist long hair.

“I wager you’ll be happy to see her back to her old self again,” Rickon says conversationally as he passes Sandor the wine skin.

“More than you’d know,” Sandor gruffs. The wine must loosen his tongue somewhat, for to Rickon’s surprise he continues the conversation.“I’ll not let any harm come to her, I can promise you that,” he says, gifting Rickon with a rare eye to eye glance. “I mean to deliver her to Winterfell but I’ve no intention of leaving her again. Ever.”

“I have no doubt, but you need not promise me, so long as you promise  _her_. And as far as promises go, will you two marry?” To his credit, the larger man doesn’t so much as hesitate under such interrogation.

“I would, and she would too, perhaps, were there another Stark for Winterfell,” Sandor says, giving him a pointed look. Rickon sighs and holds his hand out for the wine. Sandor complies.

“I made a promise that no harm would come to  _her,_ " Rickon nods his head towards Shireen, "so if I were to roost, proud and in the open at Winterfell, with her, she’d surely be found by the Targaryen force. I cannot let that happen. I made my oath.”

“And will  _you_  two marry?”

“Gods in hells, will you and my sister ever cease this? I've told her what I shall say to you, it’s because of duty, not of love.” He holds his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, exasperated, starting to feel like a liar.

“Speak to another man, then, and not me, of why those two things must require different paths,” Sandor says, leaning forward with a nod when Lila pauses in Sansa’s grooming to ladle more soup into their bowls. He forgoes use of the spoon and merely drinks the soup as if it were wine from a cup. Rickon’s stomach growls though he has also had a first helping, but the topic of conversation has taken precedence.

“I think if I combine the two I will lose what strength I have to uphold the one and will fall, completely weak, to my knees, for the other,” Rickon says, surprising himself for coming so brutally, vulnerably clean to a man he’s known three days. He takes a spoonful of soup, praying it gives him strength.

 “A long time ago I died under a tree, and I was given another go to be strong enough for both of them, and was lucky to be given a chance to prove it. I hope you don’t fuck up so badly you need someone to leave you for dead before coming to your bloody senses,” he says.

“I haven’t even known her a fortnight,” Rickon says, and he knows it's a flimsy excuse.

“It took me eight years to get back to your sister, to track her down and fulfill a years-old promise to keep her safe. I’d rather have a handful of days of thinking than that many years regretting,” Sandor says with a shrug, finally using his spoon to scrape the last few bites of soup from the edges of the wooden bowl. “Think on it, wolf pup: quick action after days, or self-loathing, guilt and regret for as many years?”

There is a squeal from the opposite side of the fire as water slops down Shireen’s arm, and she pushes up the loose sleeve to nearly her shoulder, drying off her arm with a cloth. He’s not seen so much skin on her, as it’s been too cold for such luxury. He drinks his soup as Sandor did, staring over the rim of the bowl at her milk white skin, and Shireen catches him –  _She is always catching me –_ and she watches him as she pulls the sleeve down, agonizingly slow, back over her arm before she lowers her eyes and switches places with Sansa so she may have her own hair washed. Rickon closes his eyes against the heat of the fire, but it does nothing to erase that look of hers, to block out the sound of splashing water which he knows runs now down her scalp and the nape of her neck, perhaps a trickle down the ridge of her spine. It does nothing to make him forget how her eyes smolder black in the firelight, how her eyes smolder for him, maybe. Just maybe.


	8. Chapter 8

“ _You_ left the Blackwater, you great bloody bastard, so mind your tongue when you spit out words like turncloak,” Jay says with a snarl, aiming the forefinger of his left hand to Sandor’s chest, but Brienne sweeps in between them, her pale blonde hair slicked away from her blue eyes from the drizzle that falls, that turns them all into angry, hissing cats.

“Aye, and I’d abandon it _and_ the boy king’s family all over again,  _Jay,"_  Sandor sneers, and Brienne has to muscle him back while simultaneously keeping the one handed man out of it. This current situation has spawned from the two men in question riding in the rear together, too much time to talk and throw ancient history and hate in one another’s faces. The rain this early evening is not as horrible as the other, as they are able to light a large enough fire once they back off the road, but it is plenty enough to vex. They are a full day’s ride north of Moat Cailin and while the wetness of the marshlands has dried up the closer they get to the Barrowlands, there is also less tree cover. There have already been two arguments each about how big a fire to light and where to make camp, and now tempers have erupted between Jay and Sandor, so Shireen finds refuge by the fire well out of the way.

Brienne tackles the one man's temper with her logic and unwavering calm, while Sansa and her sweetness tend to Sandor. She is a river of soft words but firm statements, and goes so far as to grasp his chin between thumb and forefinger, pulling his face back to her when he tilts his head to glare at Jay and Brienne over Sansa’s shoulder. He draws his gray eyes back to her, still reluctant to leave the anger behind, and Shireen cannot help but watch the exchange, though she does so from the fireside where she hopes her intrusion goes unnoticed. She smiles when Sansa cups Sandor’s face and his hands are on her hips, one lifting briefly to sift fingers through the vibrant red that has returned to her hair, their foreheads coming together as she talks him down like a master of horse with a wayward stallion. Oh, but there’s love there when she kisses him, a sense of answered yearning from him when his eyes close at the touch of her mouth.

It gives her a giddy, inexplicable hope when she sees the affection between the unlikely pair, makes her gaze linger longer than before when Rickon crosses her path, makes her smile in happiness when they huddle together at night under deer hide and blanket and fur. He has not kissed her again in his sleep, not like the first time she burrowed into his arms and his bed, but she wakes each morning and they are wrapped up together, and he is more at ease around her, more comfortable with his words and his looks and his actions. It is increasingly difficult to shake him from her mind, and she happens on him now more than ever, though they have been together for over three weeks now, as if she cannot help herself.

Just this morning she caught him crouched down at the spongy edge of a pool after they broke camp, shirtless as if he were bathing in the sun on The Arbor, head bowed as he splashed water on his hair. His bare back was tattooed in greens and blues, and she remembered when he teased her about being a wildling queen, and she wondered how much they hurt, wondered if they felt any different from the rest of his flesh, and  _that_  sent her rushing back to her horse, head bent, face aflame, only to be scolded by Harwin for not filling the water skins, and so she had to go back.

She is still smiling as Brienne comes to sit by her, Gendry soon to follow, and she looks up from the sewing she’s attempting on the rabbit fur Rickon tanned and stretched for her, using the needle and thread Lila gave her for the job. The fur is too thick to be the interior for gloves but she is fashioning a sort of muff, fur on the inside, so that when they sail ever north after reaching White Harbor she has another layer of protection for when the salt winds bite through her worn out gloves.

Shireen looks up after completing a stitch, glancing left and right to the newcomers at the fire. She likes Brienne, has ridden with her a few times to discuss the southern regions from which they hail and know better than these wild, ruthless climes, and the tall woman has as gentle a spirit as she does a dangerous sword arm. She likes Gendry too, but after a few attempts at conversation that were quickly squashed by Rickon’s materialization from nowhere, he stopped trying to engage her. Now, however, Rickon is busy helping Lem gut and skin a fat boar they happened upon; while he almost always has an eye out for her, Shireen thinks the constant presence of so many capable people has allowed him to let his guard down a bit. If she were asked how she felt about that, she’d not be able to answer either which way.

“I think tomorrow we’ll like to go our separate ways,” Brienne says carefully as she uses a large stick to stir the fire, push fiery red coals and embers to one side of the fire, over which they will cook their meat.

“I will miss you all, I can say sincerely,” Shireen says, setting her sewing down in her lap. “I’ve had such fun getting to know everyone, and quite frankly I feel like I will be leaving family when we part tomorrow.” It is true; from Ned, Hyle and Lem’s bawdy singing, Gendry and Podrick’s jokes and rambunctious behavior to Harwin’s gruff paternal side; from Brienne and Jay’s silent communications that are a fun mystery to try and unravel as she rides on, to Sandor and Sansa’s unapologetic affection for one another. She has never had such a close knit, familiar bustle of activity around her, even in her father’s camps.

“Family,” smiles Brienne. “Shireen,” she says after a few moments, gazing into the fire. “You remember how I told you that I was in your uncle Renly’s Kingsguard?”

“I do,” Shireen says. “I wish I knew you better then, but…” She trails off, thinking how odd to be on opposing sides then, only to share fire and wine and food on the kingsroad years later.

“When I met Gendry, or rather, when Gendry saved my life and  _then_  I met him, it struck me so deeply how much he looks like your uncle Renly. Younger, but the spitting image of him, I’d say. As his niece, what do you think when you look on him?”

Shireen complies good-naturedly, turning to regard the man, the firelight cutting some shadow in his face, but doing nothing to hide the semblance. She smiles and he returns it to her, and  _then_  it’s like looking at a _painting_ of Renly. “I too thought it when I saw him. It’s remarkable.”

“Not so remarkable as telling,” Jay says, sitting with a sigh and a groan beside Brienne. As Shireen turns to look at him, admittedly the most aloof member of Sansa’s guard, of this Brotherhood, even she can admit that a sort of softness comes over him whenever the two of them reconnect at the end of the day.

“Telling?”

“Look again, princess, and tell me what you see,” Jay instructs, uncorking a wine skin, handing it first to Brienne before taking his own slug from it.

Shireen does as bid, and now Gendry has something like hope in his eyes. Shireen frowns, misunderstanding for a moment, but then she focuses on what she sees. “I see, well. I see Renly’s eyes, my eyes, too, and hair as black as any Baratheon’s. No greyscale, fortunately for you, Gendry,” and she chuckles, but Gendry raises his eyebrows, as if trying to help her ferret out the answer to some riddle. Jay sighs testily, and Brienne hushes him, and then Shireen  _sees_  it. “Oh.  _Ohh!”_

“Yes,” Brienne says with warmth to her voice, and Gendry nods with a smile.

“But wait, not- you are not _Renly’s_ son? He- I mean, he did marry, but she was a maid still after his death. In truth, I never though he much liked-” but she is cut off with the three of them laughing.

“Not Renly’s son, no, but your cousin just the same,” Brienne says, and then Shireen understands completely; of course it would be Robert, the scoundrel, as often as even  _she_ heard of his exploits, tucked away at Storm’s End, sequestered on Dragonstone.

“Cousin?” She says to Gendry, with a smile so big her cheeks hurt.

“Aye. Cousin.” And before she can help herself, she throws her arms around his neck, hugging him with the enthusiasm of a girl. Never had she any brothers or sisters, and her time with Edric was long ago.  _Sansa was right,_  she thinks as Gendry laughs and hugs her lightly back.  _I did find family on the kingsroad._

 

He is on the very edge of the firelight, flat as this land is, though they are more or less hidden from the road in a thick copse of trees lined with hedges, and he and Lem use the light to see what they’re doing. His mouth waters at the thought of a warm meal after this day of grown men bickering at each other like old women under a gray sky of icy rain. Mist rolls in, blurring the details of what Lem is doing, and when the man curses and sticks his thumb in his mouth, bloodied from beast and a small self-inflicted nick, Rickon asks for the man’s knife and instructs him to find thin sticks long enough to skewer chunks of meat to cook over the fire. Lem mutters about going to take a piss and Rickon grunts, getting to it with swift fingers that make no mistake. 

He makes quick work of it, burying the gut pile beneath a layer of mud and snow afterwards, and when he cleans the man’s knife and stands, arching his back, he sees Gendry embracing Shireen. His heart drops into his empty stomach and there it is devoured by jealousy, disbelief, and a not insignificant amount of hurt. The dagger is still clenched in his fist and the Skagosi in him has half a mind to use it on the thieving bastard, so he steps over the carcass before he knows what he’s doing.

“Rickon, careful now,” Sansa says, stepping from the dark where the horses feed, and for the first time in the weeks they’ve been together again, he snaps at her.

“Where in fucking hells do you keep materializing from?” and the arch look on her face immediately makes him feel like a monster. “Gods, Sansa, I’m sorry, it’s just,” he says, trailing off as he watches Gendry and Shireen. She scoots closer to him and their heads are bent as they talk animatedly together. At one point Shireen gasps, a hand resting on his shoulder, before she smiles and continues talking, head close to his again. They whisper, they conspire, and it fills him with injured anger. He takes another step and Sansa’s hand is on his left wrist, close to the clenched blade.

“Rickon, for love of the old and the new, would you bloody  _listen to me_?” She hisses, as snappish and crackling as he is and that makes him pause to turn and stare at her. “Now drop the knife before I have Sandor cuff you so hard you see stars. Perhaps I’ll do it myself. Gods can see you’ve been without a parental force long enough.”

That hurts, too, and he wants to mention Osha, how she took him away from a world that wanted him dead, how she cared for him and taught him near everything he knows now, but that part of his life is so far divided from the part that his sister represents, and so he tamps it down. He realizes he is brandishing a knife, and so he drops it, lets out his breath, and grips his forehead in one hand.

“He- she’s- why does he _fascinate_ her so?” Rickon wonders, turning to his sister, and her fire dies down a bit, because she must see the hurt in his eyes for her to go from threats in one moment to pulling him in for a hug in the next.

“Rickon, do you not see the semblance between them? Their eyes, their hair, their very faces? If she did not have that greyscale, I think you’d see it even more clearly, without even knowing what we all do.”

“What?” He is half blind to her words, standing as he is in the cold dark while Shireen and Gendry talk in the warm globe of firelight flickering in the center of the copse. Sansa lets him loose from her hug and sighs affectionately.

“Rickon, they are cousins. Gendry is old King Robert’s bastard son. Gendry is no more interested in Shireen in that way than you’d be in me,” and Rickon recoils in horror, turning to look aghast at his sister, who only laughs. “Precisely. He has been trying to get close enough to her to explain it, without the whole of us staring on and intruding. Something you’ve made it your life’s mission to keep from happening,” she adds dryly, and now Rickon feels a fool.

“I- Well. I had no idea, did I?” He says gruffly.  _She’s too lovely,_  he wants to say,  _for any man to_ not _want her._ “What was I to think?”

“Perhaps you should ask why you had such a, hmm. Such a violent reaction just now? Rickon, you’re fooling no one. Why you keep yourself at arm’s length from this, I’ll never understand.”

Rickon chews his lip as he watches Shireen and Gendry with a new pair of eyes, ones less clouded with misjudgment, one cleared with new knowledge. They talk as friends do. They laugh as children do. He allows her to touch his arm or gesture, but he sits politely, makes no move. And then he thinks of how he himself has looked at her, has been called out on it by Shireen herself. He thinks of his arms around her at night, lingering touches, how he buries his face in her hair when he thinks she’s asleep, how they sit always side by side, except for now, because he is throwing a fit in the chill of night like an ingrate. Rickon exhales until his lungs are empty.

“I’m scared,” he says bluntly, because it’s absolutely the truth.

“What are you scared of?” Sansa asks, turning to face the growing group of men by the fire, her hand on his shoulder.

 “I am scared to lose her,” he says, glancing to his sister before looking back to Shireen. “I loved an entire family and lost them all. If I do more than serve her, if I love her too, then I will surely lose her like the rest of you. And I am scared to fail her. I am scared to fail her father, to put her in harm’s way because I blind myself with it. With her. With love _._ ” It all comes out in a rush, these fears he only knew he had in the foggiest, vaguest way. He stands there, dumbstruck from the admission, heart-sore from the truth of it, the weight of it he’s been carrying since a few days after they fled the encampment.

“Rickon,” Sansa says, gripping his shoulder tighter, pulling it so he’ll face her. She smiles softly, almost sadly. “I have never felt as safe as when Sandor came back for me. I have never felt so sure of anything as I am of him, now I know I am in his heart, now I know I have his love. Duty and love don’t have to pull you in separate directions because for you they’re the exact same thing: they are her. There is nothing to lose there, not with her eyes as full of you as yours are of her.”

He looks back at her and lets out a shaky breath, the mist of it billowing out between them before dissipating. Rickon shakes his head miserably, stymied by his own fear and insecurities.

“It is within your grasp, brother. You’ve only to close your fingers and claim it as your own.”  She kisses his cheek as he turns to stare at Shireen before she walks towards the warmth of the fire and then Sandor and Lem are stalking towards him, demanding to know where in fucking hells is that boar.

 

Shireen is prepared for Rickon to drop himself between Gendry and her when he returns from cleaning the boar, and is surprised when he sits instead on her left. He listens with a small smile as she animatedly mentions how Gendry and she are cousins, though she wishes they could be brothers so she would know what that feels like. Rickon nods kindly to Gendry, looking the poor man in the eye for perhaps the first time since they all met on the causeway, and the three of them share wine and, when it’s been skewered and roasted awhile, glistening chunks of boar meat between them, Rickon passing pieces to her once they’ve cooled. He breaks out some of their cheese and dried apples while others pull treasured supplies of food to pass around amongst the men. Shireen is sad; she just found family, _true_ family even, and now they dine for their last night before the two missions splinter and head their different ways.

“Have you told Sansa where we head?” She whispers to him after Harwin and Hyle, staggering slightly, return from relieving themselves and start singing some filthy tavern song.  She leans in close, their shoulders and forearms pressed together, and before he answers her he closes his eyes briefly, a flicker of something there. Sorrow, perhaps, that he splits from his sister tomorrow.

“I did, and have told her she may only tell Sandor. I know better than to think they’d keep a secret between them. But I warn you Shireen, tell no one else, not even your cousin. The fewer people who know, the fewer people they can whip the knowledge out of.”

“You can’t possibly think that they’d go so far as that,” she says, astonished. Rickon shrugs and looks at her.

“A woman who calls herself a mother of dragons will likely do whatever it takes to get rid of threat to her rule,” he says, and he sighs, resting a hand on her forearm, squeezing it once. His eyes are serious when he looks up at her. “She’ll never find us though, and if the gods are good there will be a way to keep your father’s blood off her hands. I swear it, Shireen,” he says. The intensity of his expression and his voice thickens when he leans in, pressing his cheek, lightly covered in a short, tawny beard, to her greyscale, his mouth against her ear. “I will never let anyone hurt you. _Ever._ ”

“I know, Rickon,” she says, eyes wide as she sits stock still in such close, heady proximity of him, doing her best not to let her eyelids droop from the luxury of his nearness or to raise a hand to hold him closer still.

“And you trust me? You believe it and you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Good,” he whispers, a fierce curl of voice and warm breath against her ear, and though her sensation has long fled from her left cheek, smothered out by the disease when she was but a child, Shireen swears he turns and presses a kiss to it, rough and scaled as it is, and then her eyes _do_ close. If it is a waking dream, a flight of fancy, then she wants to savor it and commit it to memory.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa is crying when they are finally ready to mount up, and more than one man wears the signs of a hangover after their last night together; all of them, even the women, even antisocial Sandor and Jay, stayed up long into the night, more than one wineskin getting guzzled dry, and even some of the strange, cider-like ale of the Neck was polished off, much to Harwin’s regret. But as slow as they move that morning, as lingering as Sansa and Gendry’s farewell to Shireen, their separation is inevitable, and before he knows it he is standing beside his sister’s horse.

They spoke in private last night, they being two of the few who did not get roaring drunk, and Sansa knows now what hopeful plan he and Howland concocted. He grips her hand in his after they embrace a final time.

“I will send Howland’s letter by raven once I get to White Harbor, but though we will reach it before you reach Winterfell, send a raven of your own once you’re home. “

“Of course,” Sansa says, shaking her head at the revelation, even after so many hours to wonder at it. “I know where you go, do you want- do you _need_ reinforcements of men, once I call banners to me?”

Oh, his heart swells with pride to hear his sister speak in such ways. She had been soft as a doll before she left their home, and now she stands with a group of soldiers, a brute for a lover, speaking of bannerman being beckoned to her. Rickon smiles, but shakes his head.

“I will not have attention drawn to ourselves, and even two more men from the mainland would raise eyebrows. Skagos is desolate and far from King’s Landing, yes, but I want nothing too out of the ordinary.”

“I still cannot believe it, you living there for three years. So young, Rickon, and so alone.”

“Not alone,” he reminds her, hating the harshness that creeps in, but even now he will not stand for indifference towards the wildling woman who kept him safe.

“Forgive me,” she says, a twist to her mouth and sadness to her eyes, though not necessarily apology. _It is too hard for her to understand,_ he thinks. _She had no one down there, save her man Sandor, and even that proved to be half a lifetime to come to fruition._

“No matter,” he waves it off. “But please, Sansa, remember. Send a raven to him and men if you have to. And when you hear word, send a raven to House Magnar. Let me know when it’s safe and I’ll come home to you, sister.”

“Only you?” She says through her tears, wiping them from her cheeks with her bare fingers before slipping her glove back on her hand. Rickon rolls his eyes.

“Ever the romantic, even after everything you’ve endured, even during another family farewell, aren’t you? Very well, then, _we_. We will come home, but only after you send word.”

“So you spoke with her,” she breathes through a watery smile.

“Ah, not so much ‘spoke’, but I think we have an understanding.” Sansa’s smile fades, and she frowns.

“An ‘understanding’?” She asks archly. Rickon sighs and gestures for her to mount by offering her his clasped hands as a boost up. She complies but has an icy look for him atop her horse. “Women do not throw their hearts away on ‘understandings,’ Rickon. Be well aware of _that._ ”

“Listen to your sister,” Sandor says, clapping Rickon so hard on the shoulder, as he walks past, that he nearly falls against Sansa’s horse. Sandor mounts the black horse known as Driftwood, though occasionally the scarred man calls him Stranger, usually after a few swigs of wine.

“ _I am_ ,” Rickon hisses at him, and turns annoyed eyes back to Sansa. “I am doing the best I can. When the time is right, Sansa. You mustn’t push me. Shireen trusts me, and you must too.”

“Fine,” she says, and the imperial air is gone as she bends down, kissing the crown of his head. “I love you, brother. This reunion has given me more joy and happiness than you know.”

“Don’t I, though?” He smiles, grasping her hand for a final squeeze before stepping back.

She rides at the head of her party, head held high, hair a flag of red that whips behind her in the occasional gust of wind, and Rickon stands with his arms folded across his chest as he watches them regain the kingsroad and put their heels to their horses in unison. His heart aches to follow her, to take Shireen to his childhood home and guard her there like treasure, to be with his sister, the only family he has in the realm. But Shireen comes to stand beside him, a hand slipping in the crook of his elbow, and it snaps him from his longing. He turns to look down at her and puts a hand over her own.

“To White Harbor, then?” He asks, and she nods.

“Yes. The sooner we’re there, the sooner we’re in a warm cabin on some ship.” And Rickon lets his mind wander at the mention of a singular cabin to share with her, as they mount their horses and head perpendicularly from the kingsroad through the snow dusted plains of the Barrowlands. His intent was to wait until nightfall, but the landscape is so desolate, picking their way through the dark would be too much a hindrance, so they canter on, his direwolf streaking along with them with an occasional howl, and whenever Shaggydog lifts his lupine voice to the wind, Shireen and Rickon exchange wild grins that make his heart soar.

They have grown used to sleeping curled up together, and no longer does he startle when he wakes to find her turned in towards him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her mouth and nose against his chest. When he wakes to that blessing he simply lets his eyes close again and takes advantage of the opportunity to run his fingers, feather light, through her hair. Only twice has he woken her from this, but they neither of them speak of it, and he feigns sleep when her groggy laughter warms the hollow of his throat. Though Sansa spoke ill of understandings between men and women, there is far too much comfort between them for there _not_ to be one, Rickon is sure of it. Shireen lets her hand linger on his arm, sits touching-close to him by their fire and is eternally tossing her hair over her shoulder. When he corrects her stance with the bow she leans back, ever so slightly, against his chest. Rickon laps it up like a cat with cream.

“A proper bath,” she says.

“Clean clothes,” Rickon responds. They are ticking off the delights they will experience firsthand when at last they ride past the walls of White Harbor.

“Dinner on a plate instead of skewered to a half damp stick.”

“Vegetables.”

“New boots and gloves.”

“Wine in an actual cup.”

“A featherbed,” she sighs rapturously, and Rickon gives her a dark grin. “Oh stop it,” she laughs. “ _Two_ featherbeds, Ser Stark,” she says piously.

“You forget I am no knight. That is Skagosi Stark to you, and you _know_ what they say about Skagos,” he leers at her, but she is impervious after close to two months of living with him, and merely kicks Fury into a gallop, her hair in her face as she turns in her saddle.

“I am the Queen of Skagos, first of her name,” she shouts. “You _will_ bend the knee!” and the wind brings it to his ears. He laughs and puts his heels to Grey Wind, and in this way they finally approach civilization. But when the walls of the city come closer and closer he cries _whoa_ to her and she circles her horse in a slowing canter, color high in her face and brightness snapping like fire in her eyes. She smiles vividly for him, and he hates what he must say for he knows it will take the wind from her sails.

“Shireen, come, put your hood up,” he says roughly, clucking to his horse to sidle up to hers. He reaches for it himself and she lets him, frowning for a moment before realization hits her.

“The greyscale,” she mutters. “They’d know me because of it.”

“No, the beauty. The maids of White Harbor would pull you from your horse out of jealousy.” He says it lightly but hopes she knows it is no jest, not to him, not to Rickon who drapes the hood over her face, down past her brows, with all the gentleness he has. She smiles tentatively, and all he sees is the soft bow of her mouth, the merest shadow of the scale, and nothing more.

“Bewitching,” he decides, and with a tug on Fury’s reins, he urges them on past the walls of White Harbor. Sea salt rides the breezes and invigorates him, makes him jumpy beneath his skin, eager as he is to get on the sea, to get to Skagos. Their horses’ hooves clop and clip against the cobbled streets and so foreign a sound is it after so long a journey through the marshes and plains that he can hear it even over the din of city life.

“Shaggy, here,” Rickon whispers, snapping his fingers, coaxing the wolf to walk between Grey Wind and Fury; the direwolf is attracting far too much attention and too much fear, though a long time ago this region rejoiced to see the Stark sigil in the flesh. This does little to quell Rickon’s fears, and he urges Shireen to duck further under her hood, which she does. Moving the wolf between them does enough to dissipate the unease, but he is still nervous, so they seek out the nearest, most reasonable inn.

The Barking Seal takes them, Rickon striding in and paying a boy a handsome coin to keep Shaggy in his horse’s own stable, and to let his lady stay with her own horse as he pays for a room. When money has crossed palms he returns, and the boy is in the middle of being charmed by Shireen’s kindness and her humor as she sits on two stacked bales of hay, her heels kicking it as she swings her legs. He braces his arms across his chest and gives her A Look, and she immediately stands, sweeping the straw from her backside in embarrassment.

“My lady,” he says, outstretching his hand, and she takes it, lets him escort her from stable to inn, past the trestles and up the stairs to a private room. She leans heavily on him and he relishes the closeness, is happy to hold her up. “Forgive me my Skagosi queen, for not bending the knee, but it seems there is only one room available.”

“I wonder how much money it would take for me to get the truth out of the innkeepers,” Shireen says through a smile. “To find out how much you paid for them to tell such a lie.”

“I did tell one lie, my lady,” he whispers as they round the corner of the stairwell and approach the second floor. “I told them you are my wife.”

 

Shireen’s head swims as he unlocks the door to their room – _Our room, ours to share, as if we are man and wife ­–_ and she almost staggers once she enters. He is behind her as always, ever present, ever tall, ever masculine, and he catches her lightly, keeping her righted on her feet. She feels hungry and thirsty and hot and cold when her eyes fall on the featherbed in the center of the room, that same featherbed they japed about a mile outside the harbor. There is a copper tub before the fire, steam rising from the surface of the water, and she grips the door jamb, feeling weak in the knees. This is all too good to be true, and altogether too intimate. Or not? She cannot decide. Shireen has never swooned before, but she wonders if she might do so now.

“Amongst a thousand other things rolling through my head, there was a wildling queen’s wish for a hot bath, so I’ve paid for one. I take mine after, though, so please don’t be too greedy,” he grins. “I’ll return in half an hour. Please _do_ be decent, wife, when I return,” and then he strides from the room, the door closing between them, and Shireen feels the absence of him most acutely, feels the taunt of his words most deliciously.

“A bath and a featherbed,” she murmurs, finally entering the room – _our room –_ pulling the hood down from her head. She sees a fat cake of soap on a folded sheet beside the tub on a small table; she has had soap only once on their journey, when she and Sansa washed their hair, and the invitation of that little cake is too much to ignore. She is a flurry of fingers as she undoes her cloak, unlaces her bodice, drags the breeches and smallclothes from her hips, leaving them in a muddy, world weary pile by the door. Despite her haste, she remembers herself, and makes sure her smallclothes are buried and well hidden in the pile before she turns and practically leaps into the copper tub, the cool air nipping at her flesh.

The water is delicious, its heat sending up a contrasting wave of gooseflesh over her naked skin, making her shiver even as she sinks down. The tub is large for her, but she wonders how ridiculous long legged Rickon would look in it. The thought embarrasses her, despite being alone, and she laughs at herself before sinking down, holding her nose as she fully submerges herself. It is a luxury, a sheer and utter delight to scrub the soap into skin and scalp, and she washes herself, head to toe, two times before finally sitting back and relaxing in the cream-white water.

The adrenaline from their gallop to the city walls, their nervous entry, the newness of it all, the thrill of a room and a bath finally ebbs, and Shireen realizes how exhausted she is. The heat from the fire and the warmth of the water turn her to jelly, and she tries halfheartedly to rouse herself, cupping her palms to splash water on her face before letting her head drop back against the lip of the tub. Weariness takes her over and she finds she cannot stay alert, can barely keep her eyes open, so she tries to survey the room, make notes of her surroundings, but cannot get past the large bed, its surface rounded from such a fat mattress, from so many blankets. It is too enticing, and she makes to stand but then the cool air hits her skin and she sinks back immediately, legs feeling weak, and thinks _maybe just a few more minutes, and then I will dress and have a proper bed to sleep in._

 

“Shireen?” He knocks on the door, rapping his knuckles twice against the wood grains, but she does not answer. Rickon smirks, thinking it a game, and knocks again. “Your Grace, it is I, your filthy shield, here to trade you places. I’ve ordered a roast dinner and a flagon of wine for you to glut yourself silly.”

There is no answer.

Rickon uses his key and cracks the door a sliver and hisses “Shireen, this isn’t funny,” but there is no answer, just the faintest crackling coming from the hearth, and his pulse quickens in a panic. _Could someone have recognized us?_ He thinks of his singular wolf, their small, odd party of a scraggly scrap of a man and a shrouded woman, and now he is terrified, thinking of her being smuggled from the inn and stolen to King’s Landing to await, what? Torture? Execution? He slowly pushes the door open, stomach roiling in fear of what he might see, a sign of struggle, blood, a room empty of her.

“Bloody hells, woman, you gave me a fright,” he sighs, leaning against the jamb with his head back, eyes closing in relief to see the back of her head in the tub. But she does not answer him, does not splash in shock over being caught in the bath, and Rickon opens his eyes, frowning as he stares at the tub. “Shireen? Shireen?”

He hesitates only one more moment before striding towards her, training his eyes on her face, _determined_ to keep his eyes on her face, but the water is blessedly opaque from the soap and he feels no stab of guilt for happening upon her in such a position. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is slack, hair slicked back from the water though the length of it floats on the surface of water, licks of black on white. Rickon squats down on his haunches, brushing her hair away from her temples. His fingers splay as they trail down to her throat.

“Shireen,” he murmurs, and her eyelids move from the flit of movement beneath them.

“Ric,” she says, only barely manages to get out, and he fears she’s drunk or poisoned she is in such a stupor.

“We must get you out of that water, Shireen.” He places a hand on her forehead; she is over-warm. “You need to cool off.”

“Can’t,” she sighs, and then she frowns with a moan. “Tried already. Just leave me here.”

He thinks of weeks of rough weather, meager meals and freezing nights, that final hurrah of a gallop into town and suddenly it dawns on him that if she _is_ drunk it is on pure exhaustion alone. The hot bath was likely the final straw. Rickon couldn’t care less for propriety at this moment (though were she actually awake she might argue with him) so he simply shakes out the sheet and drapes it over the bed before unlacing and shrugging out of his leather doublet and then his snug undershirt. Without a second thought he bends down, sliding his arms beneath her crooked knees and under her arms, lifting her listless body from the water. It’s the warmest water he’s touched in months, and her scrubbed skin is a flame against his bare chest. Shireen’s eyes flick open and it takes a moment before she focuses on him, her face an expression of confusion. “Rickon?”

“Shhh,” he says, smiling at her, and she gives in, eyes sliding closed as she winds her arms around his neck, as he walks around the tub towards the bed. The periphery of his vision is under attack by the swell of her breasts, the dusky pink that crowns them, and the warm, slippery weight of her in his arms is an intoxication in its own right. He swallows it down and lays her on the sheet as gently as a prayer, wrapping her snug in it before drawing up the covers. Once she’s tucked in he strides to the door, opens it and bellows for a serving girl, who shows up quickly enough.

“Two pitchers of water and of wine,” he orders. “Another two sheets for the tub as well.” When these things have been brought he bolts the door behind her and sighs, turning back to Shireen who has not moved once since he put her under the covers. “My poor girl,” he murmurs. He pours her a cup of water and kneels at her bedside, lifting her head in one hand and urging her to drink with the other. She does so thirstily, rousing a little from the refreshment, from the crispness of it, but then her head falls back and she’s gone again, slipping into sleep as surely as he slipped her into the bed.

He stands, arms folded across his chest, regarding her with a look of frustrated amusement. Of course she’s exhausted, but after everything they’ve been through, he was rather hoping there would be an altogether different reason to have her nearly naked in a bed. _No matter,_ he thinks as he strips down and bathes himself in her leftover water, _we have all the time in the world, now_. The water is still warm, less so now, but still a delight after so many nights of dankness, of cold hard earth under his bones, and he washes himself with enthusiasm, glancing to the bed every so often to see if she still sleeps. She does.  He looks an overgrown puppy in the small tub but does his best to get clean, soaping himself a few times before getting out, wrapping the sheet around his hips after he dries his arms and chest. He sits at the foot of the bed, drinks first a cup of water and then of wine, wonders how wretched he would be if he woke her, knowing he shouldn’t.

Rickon calls again for the serving girl, who stares in shock at his half-dressed state, and asks for every article of their clothing to be washed, twice.

“Will the lady be needing a shift in the meantime?” She asks with a stutter, eyes on the floor, and Rickon glances back to Shireen.

“My lady wife sleeps; she will be fine so long as the clothes are cleaned by tomorrow.”

“And you, my lord?”

“I am fine as I am,” he says curtly, nearly snorting at the violent blush that reddens her face. She takes the heap of their clothing, Rickon dumping out Shireen’s satchel of clothing in her waiting arms, and when she leaves he sighs, realizing now how weary he himself is. Rickon banks the fire and crawls into the other side of the bed, the second dry sheet wrapped around his hips now. The late afternoon light fades from behind the shuttered window and his eyes droop from tiredness.

She stirs once he shimmies down under the covers, and to his surprise she comes to him, her still damp hair a kiss of coolness on his shoulder when she rests her head on his naked chest, and he instinctively puts his arm around her, holding her close. The intimacy stirs him despite her slumber, and he has to grit his teeth to will his body to behave, half hard as he is already. He focuses instead on how freshly clean her brow is when he presses a kiss to it, once, twice, three times, before resting his cheek against it; he focuses instead on how close they are, how they are simply a sail away from safety, though that relief stokes something in him at the same time that it calms him. He will have her soon, he will. So for now, he can sleep.

“I’m dreaming,” she mumbles out of the blue, and he smiles, some part of him remembering this familiar dance.

“Perhaps,” he says, closing his eyes.

“It’s a good dream.”

“Aye, it is,” he murmurs, and chases Shireen into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, it was Sandor's huge slap on RIckon's back and his "listen to your sister," and that alone, that made me keep the SanSan tag on. I'M GONNA MISS HIM.


	10. Chapter 10

Shireen is wrapped snugly in a sheet under a mound of blankets and wakes gasping in a dark room, the foreign sensation of a true bed shocking her as much as the unfamiliar setting. _Water_ , she says, voice hoarse, and the bed shifts, and soon someone slides fingers down her arm, finding her hand, lifting it to place a cup in it. She sits up, half dizzy but too thirsty to care. She asks for more and the stranger complies, and she wonders if she has been kidnapped, but then she remembers the room at the inn, that they are safe in White Harbor and that she is Rickon’s mock wife. All of this comforts her, and when she drains the second cup she collapses back to the mattress. There is a shift again of weight beside her and its _him_ , she knows it, so she seeks him out with fumbling, weak fingers, finds warm skin, his arms around her, and she sleeps again, her brain a muzzy swarm of thoughts and memories that soon fade to nothing.

It is morning when she next wakes, and though she still feels tired she can actually think straight, can register the world around her. Memories slowly come back as well; Shaggydog in the stables, a warm bath waiting for her. _The water will be cold by now,_ she thinks, but then she remembers the heavenly smell of soap and clean skin, the heat of the fire and the water, the feeling of arms lifting her. She worries for a wild moment that she is naked but no, she is swathed in a sheet, nearly swaddled like a babe though her arms are free. Her eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling, when she realizes there is only one way she made it from bath to bed, unless he fled the room and had the innkeeper’s wife do it, but that’s not like Rickon…

“You’re awake,” he says, and his voice comes from beside her. She turns her head to face him, her greyscale pressed to the pillow, and he is on his side, gazing at her, his hair a dark auburn mop, his chest bare beneath the covers that reach to his waist, his eyes a sleepy green.

“Yes,” she whispers with a smile. “Thank you for helping me, for putting me to bed.”

“Do you feel better?” He reaches for her and she stops breathing when he turns her gently to her side in mirror image of him.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, pulling her towards him with that arm around her waist, his hand sliding up between her shoulder blades. She watches as he studies her face, eyes flitting from hers to her mouth and back up again. “Good,” he repeats as his hand leaves her back, much to her fleeting misery before he dips his fingers into the hair by her cheek, drawing it from her face as he holds the back of her head. “You had me worried.”

“And do you feel better now?”

“Yes,” he smiles, hand moving to let his thumb brush her lower lip. Shireen is jealous of all these touches he affords himself and, close as she is, she reaches out, a hand moving to the nape of his neck. He is as clean as she, scrubbed down and smelling of soap, and while she liked him just fine with the dust of the road on him, she finds this version of Rickon alluring. She thinks of how agonizingly close they are to one another in this bed, how they have been this close for weeks now, hovering, wavering, as if balancing on the edge of a knife. She wonders what has changed in him, what has changed in her, but she is no longer interested in balancing, anymore. Shireen wants to tip over into him.

“Good,” she says, pulling him in, closing the distance between them, finally, and is rewarded with the press of his mouth against hers, a forgotten sigh trapped there when he hums, opens his mouth and finds her tongue with his own. He is warm and his lips are soft; she remembers the press of them to her neck so long ago, the ghost of them on the greyscale, how teasing and tempting and tantalizing those brief touches have been, and how she finally gets to taste him now. The kiss gets greedy and hungry in a matter of moments; his hand leaves her hair to grab her around the hips and drag her flush against him while her fingers dig into the thicket of his hair, fingernails pressed to his scalp. That makes him groan, fist the sheet that’s wrapped around her so tightly she gasps. Rickon draws back slightly.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and she’s breathless when she shakes her head no but says _Yes_ at the same time.

“The sheet,” she says. “I can’t breathe.”

“I can fix that,” he says, and he gives it a sharp tug, finding the edge of it, and then takes a handful of the material around her chest, his fingers grazing the valley between her breasts. Another tug and the fabric around her ribs is loosened, and she exhales in relief, only to gasp again when his fingertips run along the tops of her breasts, and his eyes are on hers until she closes them and kisses him again, feels the rub of his scruff on her throat when he lightly pushes her onto her back, breaks away to kiss down her throat to her collar bone and where his fingers had touched just moments before.

“You are perfect,” he murmurs, pulling back to look at her. Once such a statement would have embarrassed her, would have made her call it a lie, but from him she sees the truth of it, hears the sincerity in the weight of his words. His expression is dark, hot, and it makes her ache between her legs nearly as much as his touches do. 

“You’re mine,” she says, testing the words, hands in his hair as he kisses between her breasts, chin pushing the sheet down.

“Yes,” he says against her skin, hands busy now that he pauses to reply to her, and she whimpers when he palms her right breast. He lifts his eyes to her as he takes the left in his mouth, his tongue a flick against her nipple. Shireen’s eyes nearly roll back in her head.  “I have been for a while.”

“And I’m yours?” She is panting now, a vessel of want and need under his attentions, his mouth back on her breast, his hand sliding lower down her body, callouses from the sword dragging against her skin, making her feel more a woman, driving further home how much of a man he is despite his youth.

“Oh yes,” he replies savagely, lifting his head to look up at her, and he looks as wild as she’s ever seen him, even spattered in blood after fighting her father’s battles, but now he’s covered in something far more intense, and she recognizes it as lust, as animal a thing as any, and probably love as well; it thrills her, makes her want to move her hips. “You are _mine_.”

His words make her moan, and that encourages him in his devilry, hands and mouth questing over her skin, making her writhe, and now she wants to be free of this damnable sheet, and she bucks within her prison. Without speaking he understands, wrenches it in agonizing increments from her body, his hands as ravenous as she is. He moans _yes_ when she’s released, running his hand down her legs, hip to toe, toe to hip before he pulls himself back up to kiss her mouth, to lick against her tongue and snare her lip with his teeth. Now she gets to run her hands down the length of his back, finding the sheet that’s wrapped around his hips, much to her dismay. She realizes she thought he was naked under the covers, and nearly grins when it strikes her how little that thought had concerned her. She digs her fingers between his skin and the sheet, nails a light scrape that make him hiss and jerk.

“Take it off,” she pants, and he _laughs_ , laughs at her hunger and impatience, and he gets to his hands and knees above her, one of his knees between her thighs.

“ _You_ take it off,” he grins. Shireen brings her lower lip between her teeth and his eyes instantly flick to her mouth. _Good_ , she thinks, and her fingers, still snared in the sheet, go to work on getting him as naked as she is now. When he is free, when she chucks the thing to the floor by the bed, her eyes flicking down his chest and belly to where his arousal shows most enthusiastically, he sinks down on top of her between her thighs, the points of his hipbones pressed against her. He is suddenly serious again, fingers in her hair again as he regards her, searching her eyes for something, a frown creasing his brow.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, lightheaded; his hard cock is pressed between them and she wants to rock her hips, tilt them up, try to get him inside her by her own designs. He kisses her, pauses as if about to speak, kisses her again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, and she smiles, hands in his hair again, bringing him close for another kiss.

“You won’t. I am six and twenty, no blushing maid, not any longer.” If he is surprised by this admission he does not show it, nor does he ask for clarification, much to her relief; she has no wish to discuss her first infatuation, her only indiscretion, not now, not with him above her.

But there is no need, not when he kisses her again, a slower kiss though just as needful, their tongues together, a hand still in her hair while the other roams southward on her body. He grazes the side swell of her breast with the pad of his thumb, drags it against her ribs so lightly it makes her jump and shiver before sliding between their hips to the juncture of her thighs.

“ _Rickon,_ ” she gasps, and he hums with pleasure, dipping into her even as he moves his hips, pressing his hardness right next to his fingers. “Rickon, please,” she begs, sliding a bent knee up his side, hooking her foot around his upper thigh, pinning him close, refusing to let him get away, not that he’d try, not with his quickened breath and ruinous kisses.

“Shireen,” he murmurs against her jawline, when he is finally, finally inside her, pausing for the briefest of moments before moving, slow thrusts, debilitating, making her throw her head back, making her forget to breathe. He repeats her name with nearly each buck of his hips until it no longer sounds like her name, no longer sounds like a word at all, just a prayer, one she answers with her body, her kisses, her love.

 

Rickon is swarmed with sensation, even after he comes, after he makes her come with his mouth, kisses and licks to the very core of her, even after they lie in a tangle, panting and sweating, and he still cannot believe it happened, even when she gets up, naked and perfect to bring them water and wine. She sits beside him, grinning with her eyes over the rim of her cup, and he rests a hand on her bare hip, staring at how it flares out like the bloom of a winter rose. She hands him the cup and breaks him from his spell as he sits up to drink, sets the cup down, takes her in his arms and pull her back down with a laugh on her lips that spills out onto his chest. He cannot believe this, cannot believe his luck, how his leap of faith was nothing, no more than a trip and stumble into her arms that were already outstretched and waiting for him.

“You look like a dazed man,” she smiles, turning on her hip and elbow beside him, regarding him with her clever, storm-blue eyes.

“I _am_ a dazed man. I have been struck by lightning,” he smiles, letting his head drop to the side to gaze at her, lifts a hand to wind a lock of her hair around a finger. “This. You see this right here?” he asks, giving her hair a tug. “This is me, wrapped around your dainty little finger. I am utterly at your mercy, my lady.”

“Is that such a bad thing, my lord?” She asks with teasing emphasis on the title.

“It is exquisite,” he says, and she dips her head to hide a smile. He wants to cover her with words of love, paint her with promises he has been too scared to make, but she hides a yawn with her fingers; it is not even midday but they have been busy this morning. His words must wait. “You are tired still.”

“I am. You have worn me out,” she says with a laugh, rolling onto her back when he draws himself over her, grinning at her.

“And you have made me a very, very happy man,” he says, kissing her before rising to his knees, crawling over her to cross the bed. He drapes one of their bath sheets over the window’s shutters to block out the light and when he turns to come back to her, her eyes are already on him, spiking his heart with want, even as much as _she_ has worn _him_ out. She lays her head on his chest, something he has slowly grown used to, but then her bare leg is hitched up and draped over him before she drags the covers over them both, and he thinks _This is what it is to be snared_ , and he thinks he has never been so content.

They sleep a few hours and are both ravenous when they wake. Shireen sips wine as he wears a blanket like a cloak, holding it shut at his chest as he peers out into the hall. Blessedly their clothes are clean and sit folded in a wicker basket by the door, and so he is able to go downstairs in breeches and a tunic.

There must be something in his eyes, his expression, the way he holds himself, for the innkeeper looks amused when he asks for two plates and another pitcher of wine, and the same serving girl from before follows him up the stairs and back to their rooms; Shireen is loosely wrapped in the sheet and sits curled up in one of two large chairs in the corner of the room, and she turns her head to hide the greyscale when the girl sets the pitcher down on the table beside her.

The girl pays her no mind, though she blushes as furiously as she did yesterday to see a lady in such casual attire and when he bolts the door in her wake and meets Shireen’s eye, they both erupt into laughter. “You shock her senses,” he grins, putting the plates down beside the wine, dragging the second chair to the table.

“I have only you to blame,” she says sweetly as she leans forward to spear a green bean with a fork. He tears into his chicken and for several minutes they eat in silence, filling themselves with roasted meat and caramelized vegetables, buttery potatoes and juicy grapes. Every movement of hers is a heightened experience for him, and as she chews he watches the muscles of her jaws work, knows how that part of her feels beneath his lips. Her fingers are deft and she eats with the grace of a queen though she sits there in a sheet, her undone hair a tousle after their activity, a leg bent and her heel pressed to the edge of her seat. She catches him and smirks, and he rolls his eyes as he sits back, sated from the meal, sipping his wine. “You’re staring.”

“You bewitch me,” he says, making her laugh prettily. “As I said, I am completely at your mercy. I simply cannot help myself.”

“I find,” she says lightly, dropping her heel to the floor as she stands and walks around the table to him, “that I simply cannot help myself with you, either.” He slouches a bit in his chair as she sits on his lap, setting his cup down to slide a hand beneath the sheet and up her thigh, and he wishes she would wear nothing else, ever again, save for this cloth. Her breath catches beautifully in her throat when he kisses her, tastes the wine on her tongue, pulls her against his chest. When she moves her legs, draping them over the arm rest of the chair, sitting sideways on his thighs, he lifts her and stands, carrying her to the bed once again.

 

“Won’t you be cold?” She asks with an involuntary shiver, sitting on the bed in the nightshift she wore when he pressed his palm against her mouth and told her they had to leave her father’s camp. Rickon dresses in just his breeches, boots and tunic though he intends to go out in the falling snow and send a raven with his mysterious message. He looks up from the laces of his tunic and grins.

“You forget who you talk to,” he says, finishing his dress. He crosses the room and crouches by the bed, his chin on her knee, and she is reminded of his direwolf. “One day you will walk in the surf of Skagos with nothing but your bare feet and a nightshift. Your blood will thicken and you will come to relish the cold. Until then, I shall do my best to keep you warm.”

“You’ve proven yourself well up to the challenge,” she murmurs, carding her fingers through his hair as he presses a kiss to her thigh, to her hands when he gets to his feet.

“Lock the door behind me,” he instructs as he straps his sword around his hips. “I shall return as soon as possible. I want to secure passage on a ship as well, so it may be a while yet.”

“Rickon,” she says softly, rising from the bed to come to him. They have crossed to new, unchartered territory within their relationship, and while she feels closer to him now than ever before, she is still unsure of how to approach him on this topic. But when he bows his head and drops his gaze to the floor, she knows he anticipates what she will say. “Will you not tell me what it is you wish to send? And to whom? Are you sending a message to my father, to Davos?”

She hates that it sounds like pleading, wheedling, begging, but to his credit he does not get huffy, does not roll his eyes or push her away. Conversely, he looks pained, miserable almost as he takes her hands in his, finally looking up at her.

“You told me on the kingsroad that you trust me,” he says slowly, and she remembers, remembers him kissing her greyscale when she assured him that yes, she _did_.

“I did and I do,” she says.

“I am, hmm. I am a decisive man, Shireen. I think of a thing, I make a judgment, I do it. I do not normally stew over things.”

“And yet you waited long enough to kiss me, though we slept side by side for weeks,” she points out.

He smiles at her, and what frost has crept in her tone melts at the sight of it.

“I waited because you are worth waiting for. I had to be sure, I had to- I had to be sure I could keep my head even if I gave you my heart,” he murmurs, brushing fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear, making her eyes close at the tenderness. His voice is as soft as his touch, deep though it is, and his words are like love letters when they fall around her. “I hesitated, yes, but I still knew what I wanted. I was sure of you.”

“Rickon,” she says, voice just above a whisper, and she winds her arms over his shoulders, hands clasping at the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her so that she might kiss him. He goes willingly and though he has demonstrated nearly all day how filled he is with want for her, this is a chaste kiss, one full of something weightier than lust.

“I was sure of you, just as I am sure that you must be patient with me a little longer. I normally do not mull and brood over things, but I have mulled and brooded over this.”

“All right,” she says with a nod as they slowly part, and his smile returns to hear her words. “All right.”

He thanks her and departs, and she is left to her own devices for the better part of two hours, and is half asleep with a book in her hands and a stump of a candle on the little table beside the bed when he unlocks the door and slips in. She smiles drowsily to see him, and he speaks of the city sights and sounds, of the weather and Shaggydog, who nipped at his fingers before letting him pet the wolf, so restless is the beast in his confines.

“We sail to Skagos in two days,” he says against her back, kisses pressed to the muslin of her shift. His arm drapes over her waist in its usual spot and the world feels right again to feel him there. “I booked our passage this evening on a massive galley, with room enough for my wolf and our horses. Although, my lady, I do hope it is all right that I have booked just one cabin.”

“Silly man,” she says, turning under the weight of his arm to kiss him. He props himself up on an elbow and leans over her, blowing out the candle, shrouding them in darkness. She is tired but he uses the tip of a finger to drag her shift down, pressing persuasive kisses to her bared shoulder, and there it is, the desire for him, stoked merry and bright from such a simple thing. “However else shall I keep warm at night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so for this fic I envision Rickon as a young David Wenham. JUST SAYING.
> 
> Shireen I see as Tatiana Maslany. I hope that doesn't ruin anyone's head canon!


	11. Chapter 11

In the two days they have hunkered down in The Barking Seal, Rickon has made love to Shireen more often than all the other times he slept with women before, combined, and still he finds he is insatiable. The buildup of tension during their travels through the Neck and Barrowlands boiled and bubbled over the morning they woke together in a true bed, and what tenuous threads of self-control to which he had been clinging severed the moment she tipped her head to look at him. He has not bothered to try and mend them, either, and as he suspected before, he finds drowning in her to be far more favorable to breathing without her.

He has gone downstairs for food, to the streets of White Harbor to sharpen his sword and their daggers with the use of a professional’s whetstone, to check the horses and his direwolf, but for the most part they spend these days in various stages of disarray. The sheet remains draped over the closed shutters, candles stand scattered throughout the room, casting warm hues and seductive shadows on the walls. Shireen asks for clean water each day to bathe in, and the serving girl is replaced with the innkeeper’s wife, who has far less sensitivity to such situations, and who finally hauls in an earthenware pot to hang in their hearth so they “can heat their own bloody water themselves.” At one point, after seeing the state of moral decline in their room, she comments loudly from the hall how the place is starting to look like a brothel.

They take it as a compliment.

Currently they are in bed, and they are half naked, but Shireen is determined, in the dusk of day, to bring his mind to order, though thankfully she has let his body run wild with her. He is on his stomach in his smallclothes, his calves and ankles tangled in the sheets of the unmade bed, and she is curled up on her knees beside his waist, her long hair trailing on the small of his back while she uses the pad of her forefinger to trace letters onto his shoulders. His eyes are closed in a curious mingling of concentration and sexual frustration, but she has vowed to never touch him again if he does not show some focus and dedication, and so there he is, trying to visualize the letter she draws on him, to string them together like beads and form words. So far she has written, and he has spelled out, _wolf, Skagos_ (which is spelled nothing how he thought it would be), and, in rapid succession, _pour, me,_ and _wine._

“S. A. P?”

“No, try again.”

Rickon growls, squeezes his eyes shut in a frown as she repeats the sweep of her finger on his back, a cool paintbrush of skin. “D.”

“Very good, Ric, now keep going, there’s more.” This new nickname of hers has struck a deep chord within him, for it is the first he has ever been given. He cannot help but smile, though his face is turned towards her and she may take this as cheeky insubordination.

“D. Wait, are you starting over or is this another one?”

“It’s another one.”

“L. E. S.A.D.D.L.E? Uh, Sad,” he begins, sounding it out as she taught him – or tried teaching him – years ago. “Addle. Saddle?”

“Perfect!” she cries with a clap of her hands, and as promised, when he scrambles and props himself on his elbows, she is there, sweeping down to kiss his mouth. Her nightshift is barely laced shut and he sees the movement of her breasts sloping to the side as she leans down. She lets him open their mouths, the fleeting touch of tongues, lets him span his fingers against her collarbone, but briefly, and it is over nearly before it’s begun. He sighs and lowers his chest back to the mattress.

“How you think this helps me concentrate,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Pressure under fire,” she says archly and he has nothing to do but comply, and he does so, spelling now with the dreaded lower case letters again until she grows naughtier, tracing words like _tongue_ and _thigh_ and finally a word he’d never think she’d write, let alone speak out loud, but one he recognizes soon enough once she helps him sound it out, and then he goes searching for it himself between two of the second word, using the first.

These are the drifting, drowsy, languid moments they share in this room; he begins to wish they could stay forever in this little space, nothing coming in, rarely anything leaving, just the two of them, growing stronger and closer together like the grafting of two sapling trees, the way his lady mother showed him once in the glass gardens. Two different creatures cleaving into one, and this idea, however overly flowery and romantic it is, pleases him greatly. He thinks of this later as she bathes, steam rising up from water he himself heated, watching her soap her legs, her feet, wiggling her toes as she tickles herself with the small scrap of cloth she uses as a sponge. He lies on his stomach on the bed again but this time facing the fire, his feet towards the pillows, facing the bath. The tub is within reach of him, due to his long arm span, but so far he leaves her alone, content just to study her. Either she is used to his long looks or is ignoring him, for she does not turn her head, does not catch him as she normally does, and he is given full rein to devour her with his eyes.

She finishes with the soap and dunks beneath the surface, the steady churn of her breath breaking the water into small choppy waves. The caps of her knees rise higher, mountains thrusting up from the middle of a milk-white sea, and the firelight catches there, illuminating her from thigh to shin. He thinks of a bow made of the light on her legs and wonders what darkness the arrows would be made of – _Her hair, perhaps –_ before she rises up again, sweeping the water from her face. Finally she sighs happily and turns to him; he has folded his arms beneath his chin, head turned slightly to look her head on, and she smiles, amusement on her face. The firelight licks the greyscale, too, and he thinks he’s happy she has it, though she hates it, has suffered from it. It is so perfectly unusual, so singular, so rough to her softness, all sharpness to her curves, and it is wonderfully _her_. The bite of her tongue and snapping of her words is there, the fire in her eyes, the straightening of her spine when she is challenged. _The source of her fury,_ he thinks, but that makes sense in more than one way.

“You remind me of Shaggydog,” she says, head resting back against the lip of the tub, “sitting there with your head on your paws and your feral green eyes on me.” Rickon grins, slowly.

“Am I feral?”

“Not yet. You were, when you were 13, and then you came oh-so-close to civilized, but the closer we get to Skagos, the more wildness I see there. Just like your direwolf.”

He muses over this, turning his head to rest his cheek on his forearms, still gazing at her as he ponders. “It is your fault, I think,” and she asks _Oh?_ with her eyebrows raised, and he nods. “I have dreams, sometimes. That I _am_ a wolf, and I think I am actually Shaggydog.”

“Really?” The amusement has feathered out to genuine interest, piqued curiosity.

“Aye. I dreamed I was him on the kingsroad when you fell asleep on him. I felt your fingers in my fur, I felt the ache in my four paws from all the running. I felt the weight of you against me, though I, _I_ , Rickon of two legs, was asleep on the other side of Shaggy.”

He reaches out now, draping his wrist over the edge of the tub, letting his hand fall into the water, an easy thing since she loves it so full, and it meets skin when her hand lifts, and their fingers entwine beneath the surface of the water. “I suppose I wanted to be closer to you, even then,” he says, amused to think how far they’ve come in such a short span of time.

“I think I always wanted to be closer to you,” she sayso after a few moments. “Stalking around in lonely anger all around camp. I tried, you know. I knew you didn’t _really_ want to learn how to read, but it was something. Some sort of connection, you know? Something.” It makes sense now, when he thinks back on it, how Davos had sought him out, told him Shireen was good at this sort of thing, and though Rickon had insisted he didn’t give a shit one way or another, the King’s Hand had gently insisted. She had been so cheery, so eager to get him to talk, and he had shut her out when her questions overwhelmed him, pushed her books away when those overwhelmed him as well.

“Too bad you had no wolf,” he smiles, imagining the two of them running as wolves together, _but then, haven’t we been doing that this whole time?_

“I have one now,” she whispers, and his heart aches so divinely to hear such words from her. He merely nods, and they are quiet for the rest of her soak, gazing at each other, hands clasped in the soapy, sweet smelling water, until she shivers and Rickon rises, squeezing her fingers before releasing them to snap open and hold out a clean sheet, to wrap her in it before his arms follow suit, to kiss her with everything he has inside him, wildness and sweetness alike.

 

She is sad to leave their little room when the time comes, when the third day dawns crisp with a sky full of snowy promise. Rickon is brisk as he dresses, straps on his sword and swings his cloak over his shoulders, watching her with arms crossed and an indescribable expression on his face when she dresses in her burgundy and brown dress with split skirts, Meera’s old brown breeches beneath. But even he pauses when they cross the threshold, and looks to her fondly.

“I should like a room just like it for us on Skagos,” he says, close to her ear so their destination remains secret, and her heart and belly thrum together with happy warmth to hear him speak so decisively about a life _together_ and not just a life of woman and sworn shield. _I am a decisive man,_ he had told her. _So you are, my love,_ she thinks with a smile as he clicks shut the door.

Their horses and Shaggydog are well rested and bright eyed when they come to free them of their confines, and when Rickon posts her up onto Fury’s back, he dances with the knowledge of an upcoming ride.

“Poor thing,” she coos, “it’s not so long a ride as you’d like to the ship. Wait, what are you doing?” She twists in her saddle to see Rickon pulling her cloak over the drape of her dress that covers Fury like a damask blanket. Soon all the pretty fabric is gone from sight, and he glances up at her, an eyebrow raised.

“You want to draw attention to yourself, my lady?” He scolds her, glancing over his shoulder to find the stable boy, though he is playful enough with his looks. “You are as regal as a queen, I don’t care how plain your cloak is or how formidable you look with a quiver on your back and a dagger in your boot.”

“Yes, because it is I in an old cut up dress drawing attention, not the direwolf I can reach from horseback, he is so large.”  Rickon rolls his eyes and leads her from the stable, bidding her wait until he rides out and sidles his horse up to hers. He casts a pointed glance behind them, and Shireen looks to see the boy blushing, a hand on the door, watching her. Caught by them both he utters a strangled “Sorry!” and ducks from view. Rickon laughs.

“It is not Shaggydog who makes stable boys weak in the knees and blush like maidens at a tourney,” he says, kicking his horse to a walk, and Shireen feels a blush coming on of her own. They ride, Shaggy in between as before, when they head towards the docks. Rickon still wants provisions for the trip and to refill both of their quivers for Skagos, one less thing to worry about once they’re there. Rickon dismounts to fill a burlap sack with two wheels of cheese, several small, knobbly loaves of bread, strips of dried beef and, at her request, several small apples. There is a brief moment of worry when a gust of wind snares her hood and pulls it from her face, and she ducks her head in fear as she scrambles to drag it back up over her head and down past her eyebrows. He glances around nonchalantly, but reassures her no one seemed to notice.

They cut a hasty path, however, to the galley, a large ship Rickon tells her is called _The Sea Sprite._ They tuck Shaggy away in their cabin, as the sailors won’t have him loose with the livestock and Rickon refuses to cage him, then head down further in the belly of the ship to board their horses in small, hay-strewn stables with the rest of the animals, though they are mostly smaller, goats, sheep and chickens. There is an overwhelming abundance of sheep, if anyone were to ask Shireen, and she mentions it to Rickon.

“He does business on Skagos,” Rickon murmurs as they unsaddle their horses side by side, nearly back to back in the small confines. “A small, two House war has broken out; children and women fled to the other side of the isle, apparently. There have been some land disputes and all the animals of these neighboring Houses were slaughtered not a month ago. Horses included; in fact, he offered a fine price for ours.”

Shireen is aghast, thinking of all the life lost because of these savage lords, and while he has, with his words, painted beautiful pictures of wind-whipped scraggy mountains, pine-choked beaches with snow falling into their needles, she is again gripped with the same unease she felt the very first time he told her their destination. But then Rickon laughs, sagging against Fury’s belly as Grey Wind’s saddle slips into his arms, the combined weight of his jest and the tack apparently too much to bear.

“I am joking,” he says. “He will bring the sheep to Sisterton, the only stop before ours, and then is on to deliver wine and ale to the men of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. I wish you could have seen your face. The horror,” he says, wincing as she slaps his shoulder though his laughter does not die down. He has laughed more with her these two months than she has seen ever before, and though she is the butt of this joke, she cannot allow herself to get mad, to make him stop. He is too handsome with his face lit as it is now. He sags his head back as he catches his breath after his jape – _which wasn’t_ that _funny,_ she thinks – and his shaggy crop of hair falls back against the back of his neck. She has the urge to run her fingers through it, tug him down to kiss her, but there are sailors all around in a hustle to get the sails up and everything secured, so she refrains. But that was a moment, she realizes, where she could have easily told Rickon that she loves him.

They settle in afterwards, taking their tack and saddlebags with them, or rather, Rickon hauling both saddles on his shoulders, crab-walking sideways through the narrow halls, as Shireen follows him, four saddlebags and two bedrolls draped across her forearms and two sets of hide and fur pinned to her body with her elbows. They are both panting with exhaustion by the time they reach their cabin door, and she feels as sweaty as Rickon looks, his forehead shining when they finally stagger inside. He dumps the saddles on a long bench lining the shortest wall of the room while Shireen simply dumps it all in the center of the room, collapsing in a heap on top of the bedrolls, and then they’re both laughing.

“Tell me what it’s really like, Rickon,” she asks later, after they sail out of the mouth of the White Knife and out into open sea. They are out on deck, Shireen pinning her cloak to her left cheek with her fingers to keep the wind from whipping it off her head again, and Rickon is standing behind her, hands braced to the railing on either side of her. They rock deliciously with the waves, and both have already expressed the relief they feel so far to have no seasickness.

“What’s what really like?” he says, his voice faraway as he stares into the sea. They are on starboard side and can just barely see the distant, distant shore of the thickest part of the Neck.

“Skagos. I know what the island is like, but, are there really wars between the Houses like you japed about earlier?” Rickon chuckles, and she rolls her eyes, glaring over her shoulder at him. “I mean it, you. I get nothing but description of the wilderness there. What of these people I am to join? Do- do they, I don’t know,” she huffs, exasperated. “Do they treat with each other? Break bread with one another, marry their daughters between the Houses? Are there even more than the Magnars there?”

Rickon pauses, and she knows he’s thinking of his words. He dips and rests his chin on the crown of her head. “There is House Magnar, as you know, and, well, to be perfectly honest, they _are_ rather lawless. Think… Hmm. Think of the wildlings you met at the Wall. Give them swords and stone keeps instead of spears and arrows and tents. Give them lands and livestock, give them names like Magnar and Crowl and Stane, and that is about as accurate as it gets. There are no cannibals, but they do fight viciously, and they will steal a woman if she lets him.”

Shireen shudders and it has nothing to do with the snow whirling around them. "Will they try to steal me?" One of his hands leaves the railing and his arm is brought around her waist, a fist clenched at her hip, and she remembers waking in his arms like this, sitting astride his horse on the kingsroad, and it makes her close her eyes. She wonders if he knows how such a simple gesture can fill her with comfort.

“I have already stolen you,” he whispers through the cloak pressed to her face. “We discussed this," he says, rousing her somewhat to recall the conversation they had between kisses. "You’re already mine.”

“And what if someone tries to steal me again?” she asks, her arm coming to rest atop his, her gloved fingers prying open his hand.

“Then I will kill him,” he says with a shrug.

“Or I will,” she says with a grin, and he hums with pleasure, the purr of it rumbling against her back, and together they watch the realm of land slip away into one of seawater and snow and salty, biting air.

 

They stop, as the captain told him, at Sisterton, and then they have a relatively calm eight days on the water. Shireen and he do not feel as wonderfully isolated as they had The Barking Seal, but it is enough that they share their room and their bed, that Shaggydog is there. They drink wine from the skins they grew used to on the road, lest a wave pitch a flagon over, they feed each other from their saddlebags or, on rare occasions, dine with the captain in his quarters, as they are the only paying passengers on board a ship full of sailors. She sits him down, grumbling, to practice his letters for true, in a book with a scrap of parchment and a quill, and she instructs patiently as the boat does its best to rock him to sleep, as Shireen sighs with a laugh and calls him hopeless.

They take strolls around the deck together, and he feels badly that she must keep her face hidden, but he will take no chances, not until they arrive and he can treat with Eli Magnar, swear fealty to the strongest House of Skagos, reassert the fledgling dominance he had exerted before Davos swept him and Shaggy away. Seven years ago the man had no surviving sons, had taken a shine to Rickon and set a roaming eye to Osha. He hopes he can regain his footing, right where he left off, and he feels his blood heating in his veins the closer the boat brings them to Skagos. When they arrive, when they drop anchor and Rickon feels the sand beneath his boots, then he will bid her to throw back her hood, regard her new home, let it regard _her_ in all her glory.

Shireen persuades him to read during daylight hours, but all that sophistication cannot tamp out the wildling that rears up. He paces now, eager to get there, whether they are on deck or in their rooms, and with his restless energy he teaches her to fight with a dagger, when to sweep the blade in an arc, the flat of it pressed to the soft side of her forearm, and when to stab; it is almost always wisest to stab. In turn, she has him reading actual books now, and he stammers and huffs like a petulant child, but she is ever patient, and has ways of coaxing out his persistence.

The weather turns when they are between Widow’s Watch and Karhold, and the boat pitches and dips and the wood groans and creaks under pressure of the storm outside. She clings to him in bed while Shaggydog does his best to maintain a direwolf’s dignity, and Rickon shushes his wolf, murmurs words of assurance to Shireen as they toss, as his stomach drops each time they nosedive down another swell.

“Tell me something, anything,” she whimpers, eyes shut, and in all this time they’ve been together he thinks this is the first time he’s heard _real_ fear out of her, and he tells her so, kissing her temple, smoothing her hair away from her face. Her fingers are like claws, gripping his tunic so fiercely, and he gently pries them open, holds her hand in his as they slide from one side of the bed to the other, back again, and she whines like a pup.

“I will tell you a thing, a good thing that I have been holding dear to me,” he says, starting out as a whisper, ending louder to speak over the crack of thunder above and all around them. He is merely thankful it is not the middle of the night, when this storm rages, because at least they can see, though the clouds outside are the color of charcoal. He cranes his neck to look at her, waits until she tilts her head up and looks at him. “Don’t be scared, Shireen. Not the woman who hails from Storm’s End, the woman with storms for eyes.”

“If we were in Storm’s End, there’d be nothing to fear,” she says, smiling weakly, but still it’s a joke, and he kisses her forehead, smiles back to her. “What would you tell me, Rickon? What is dear to you, to your heart?”

“Osha will be there, when we arrive,” he says, and despite the rocking and tipping, despite the lashing of rain against their little window, despite the roil of nausea they likely both feel, he cannot keep the happiness or the warmth of pride from his voice. “You will meet the only mother I have left in this world.”

Forgetting herself and the wild weather Shireen sits bolt upright, her mouth hanging open. He laughs at her look of incredulity, and for that she smacks him soundly on the chest. Now they both forget the storm, though Shaggydog, growling as he slides across the floor, nails making no purchase in the smooth wood, remembers for the both of them. “You cannot be serious! Rickon! Why did you not tell me before? This, this is a huge thing, this is a wonder. I don’t know why, but I just, well, I just assumed the worst, you had never said anything as to whether she lived or not.”

He calls Shaggy to them and orders him atop the bed, and they are huddled together, and they both of them pet and soothe the beast. “I did not mention it because I was not sure who I would be bringing to Skagos. Shireen the princess, or, ah, well,” he fades, and feels a fool for losing his ground, losing his words. Shireen smiles, and then the boat pitches, and Shaggy whines in frustration as they cling to each other and him, Rickon gripping the edge of the bed and dragging Shireen back down. Men shout and yell at each other from overhead, and there are thunderous footsteps down the hall outside their cabin, the sound of a man slamming into the wall. Now it is Rickon’s turn to squeeze his eyes shut, though he remembers storms aplenty when he sailed with Davos for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

“Shireen the princess or Shireen the what? Who do you bring to Skagos, Rickon? Who will meet Osha?”

“Shireen the woman,” he says through clenched teeth, several minutes later. He feels her arms around him, comforting like a buoy, though she clings to him like she would a piece of flotsam were they cast into the water, and he contents himself with the thought that they save each other. “My woman.”

“Ah,” she says, soft as whisper amidst all this noise, and he must smile despite himself.

“And what Rickon goes to see his wildling mother? Who steps on shore?” He teases back.

“Rickon Stark. Sworn shield. Wolf. Love of my life, I think,” she whispers, and he stills in her arms, feels frozen in place to hear those words drop. There is another vivid flash of lightning outside and another hellacious clap of thunder, more shouting above deck, but Rickon barely registers it.

“We seem to have another thing in common, then,” he says, and for the rest of the day, until they ride out the storm and meet calmer waters sometime in the night, the weather doesn’t seem so bad, after all.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

He has heard Sansa speak of Winterfell for months now, has felt the reverberations of her sweet voice as she laid her head on his bare chest and spoke of the first keep, the godswood and the heart tree, the hot springs and how their waters keep the castle warm. He listened, arms around her, mostly in silence, for speaking is still not something Sandor is used to after so many years on the isle. Unbidden, visions of a great, ancient castle rose up in his mind’s eye, snow catching on its many roofs and in the mortar between stones, in the red of her hair as she crosses the yard, though back then it was a murky dark brown (and how that broke his heart to see, when she descended from The Eyrie).

Sandor has heard of Winterfell but now he hears the castle itself as it is rebuilt, hears the hammering of nail into stone and wood, the shouts and curses and laughter of men as they work. He sweats Winterfell, bleeds Winterfell, tastes it on his tongue while he pants as he labors side by side with this straggly party of hers, though the folk of Winter Town come as well, first a trickle and then a flood, to rebuild their Lady’s home as she works from the inside out to reclaim the North. The Mormonts, Glovers and Manderlys are first to send ravens to her when they catch wind of the sudden explosion of activity within the once empty halls here, and soon the mountain clans, Flint and Wull and Norrey, come in person to pledge fealty to Sansa, who sits in her father’s chair, who moves into her father’s rooms.

He moves into her father’s rooms as well, for she insists upon it, and Sandor finds he cannot, will not refuse her anything, no matter how many times his thoughts are assaulted with the memory of her father. It is why he is here. He calls this cold region home now, this half burned castle home now, calls this blue eyed woman home now. She makes the journey worth it, makes his death and his rebirth worth it, makes every exhausting day worth it after he hauls his weary bones up the stone steps to their chamber, where she sits most evenings, poring over maps and figures and letters sent in from the northern families. But she always looks up when he shoves open the door, a smile already there waiting for him as she sets down her quill and stands to receive him. “Sansa, I’m filthy,” he will say, and she will shush him, kiss him until he gives in with a sigh, and maybe he even smiles.

They have been at this new life for two weeks, and the Brotherhood struggles to make their new roles at Winterfell fit. He can practically see then pulling at the collars of their new titles, as if the positions itched, needed hemming, needed taking out. Harwin is castellan now, as he and Sansa are the sole people there who once called Winterfell home, and sometimes Sandor can see him glare at Ned Dayne, who is now master of horse. Gendry, however, is happy as a pig in shit, practically made a beeline for the smithy once they arrived, and the ringing from his forge fills the yard from morning ‘til night. Podrick is now steward, and he hustles amongst the folk of Winter Town, has already replanted half of the curious gardens that live in a house of glass, and manages the supplies that keep flooding in from nearby families. The rest of them rattle about, try to help where they can, and mostly they are all just relieved to be off the road, to have something static and solid to work towards, to have a place other than their honor or integrity to call home.

This day the snow has fallen continuously, slowing reconstruction considerably, but he does not find the little bird in her solar. Sandor takes to exploring the castle, tentatively for fear of getting lost in this sprawling, mournful place, before recalling the godswood and her affinity for prayer and peace, and so he sets out through the yard towards it, nodding when he sees Pod leading a man with a wheelbarrow full of sacks of flour in from the south gate. They’ll have fresh bread tonight, thanks to the women who have installed themselves as self-appointed cooks for the Lady Sansa.

And there she is, before the heart tree, her hair a rival to its crimson leaves. These are the moments that he so often experiences, when guilt and self-loathing consume him, when he feels the heaviness of his past, no matter how many times Elder Brother told him that man died. Because she is perfect, always has been even when he had ridiculed her for it, ridiculed her for being what he always wanted to be, and here he stands, in her world and in her heart, two places he has no business belonging. Sandor heaves a sigh, as he so often does, and tries with vigor to shake it off as he approaches her. He does not slink or skulk, he is too large for such tactics, but still his footsteps are hushed from the snow on the ground, from the odd way that no noise seems to penetrate this wood. And so she does not turn to see him until he is nearly upon her, could outstretch an arm and sift his fingers through the auburn, run them down the center of her back.

“Sandor,” she says with a smile over her shoulder, body following the turn of her cheek, and he bows his head to her, to which she clucks her tongue against her teeth and rolls her eyes. “Such formality. After  _everything_ , one would think that sort of thing would fall to the wayside,” and she’s there, in the sliver of space between his arm and side, and as it is each time she leans into him he cannot quite understand why. Why she loves him so, how he has this life now. But while he’s a dog that’s been beaten his whole life, he’s not a stupid dog, and knows when to accept the good. So he does, and he puts a finger beneath her chin to lift it, and she is all smiles when he kisses her. “That’s more the thing I was wanting,” she says. She rests a hand on the scarred side of him, and  _that_  is something he is finally used to from her, though in the beginning – the restart, rather – he thought she was trying to prove a point. He knows better, now, and tries to accept it as an outpouring of her love.

“Flour has been brought in,” he says gruffly, stupidly, by way of excuse to come seek her out.

“That’s wonderful,” she sighs, resting her head against his chest; it is a strange thing, after so long a journey to not wear armor or boiled leather, just tunics and furs, wools and muslins. He absentmindedly strokes her hair as they both gaze into the black water beneath the heart tree. “I think everyone might faint with pleasure, it’s been so long since we had fresh bread.”

It has been. Sandor remembers the last hot roll he ate, breaking his fast with Elder Brother before explaining that he was leaving.

“Have you passed on your brother’s word with a raven?” He asks after a few moments of silence.

“I have. I still cannot believe it all. It will change everything, but if he does what Harwin suggests, then it will change everything for the better.”

“We can hope so, yes.”

“It may inspire her to support us here at Winterfell. The Starks could be reinstated as Wardens of the North again.”

“You know as well as I that you Starks will  _always_  be that, little bird,” he says. “Bolton’s fleeting grasp on it was a lifetime ago. The North will always be loyal to you.”

“But Starks played a role in the rebellion, we supported King Robert, the Usurper in her eyes.”

“If she’s worthy of her reputation, she’ll be wise enough to see that the North will rally for you and none other. Rest easy, Sansa. You reign supreme here.”

She hums contemplatively, and then remembers herself, tips her head up to regard him. “I’m sorry, Sandor, we’re just standing out here in the snow. Are you cold?”

He huffs a laugh, kisses her hair. “Not when I’m this close to you, my girl.”  _I burn for you, whenever you’re near, a fire I’d_ _gladly die in,_  he thinks, though he could never say it, not with words. His hands maybe. His mouth, too. His arm comes around her more firmly at the thought of it, and he even grins when she responds in kind, knowing him better than he knows himself.

“I think I’d like a bath,” she says lightly, but then she turns, looking behind them towards the hot springs she talks so highly of. “Filling a copper tub sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?” His eyebrows shoot up towards his uneven hairline, and then he laughs for true. It thunders out in the godswood as she slips free from him, already removing her cloak and draping it over her forearm as she, a true northern woman, walks in nothing but a thin wool dress through the snow towards the springs, and really, he has no choice but to follow.

She is the color of purest cream when she slips free from her dress, and after a perfunctory glance to the wood’s entrance, he cannot take his eyes from her. She steps in lightly, and he watches the surface of water consume her, inch by inch, as she disappears from view. The slender ankles and swell of calves, soft thighs and flare of hips, the cinching of her waist, the waist he loves to span with his hands when she sighs above him, his hands that always look so big and rough against the softness of her. And then she’s gone completely, her hair adrift on the surface as she dunks completely in, but then that disappears as well, leaving him standing there like an idiot with his cock half hard and his jaw dropped open.

Sansa laughs when she comes back up, wiping the water from her eyes, hair a slick curtain down her neck and back, seeing him there with his mouth agape, and it shakes him from his paralysis. He drops the fur from his shoulders and pulls the layered tunics and shirts from his back, kicking off his boots and breeches. He knows he is all muscle and sinew and bone and a little residual anger and hate, but still he feels like a fat, blundering aurochs compared to her as he steps into the spring. It is piping hot, the water, and it is a striking, dizzying contrast to the snapping-cold winter air. He dunks down as she did, though with far less grace if anyone were to ask him, but when he stands, sweeping his hair back, hating that it reveals even more of his scars, she is on him like a cat, nails on his shoulders. He staggers back somewhat, but holds her to him, keeps her close.

“If someone should come in the wood,” he starts, but she shuts him up with a kiss.

“There are only two people who I want to come in this wood, Sandor, and they are in this pool.” Her words stoke him, and he growls before kissing her; he’s hungry now, far less tentative than by the heart tree, his hand a fist in the wet hair at the back of her neck, making her moan into his mouth, against his tongue before she nips his lip. That gets his blood hot, sets his hand to roam her body beneath the water, and then she is pushing him, walking him backwards into the shallows until he has to thrust an arm out behind him to catch himself as he sits on the soft earth beneath the water. Sansa straddles his hips, sighs luxuriously, grins like a cat when she looks down at him, and he is a speechless – _ever speechless –_ snarl of nerves and need beneath her.

She is waist deep in the water and she pushes him back so it covers his chest; he folds an arm beneath his head and watches her, watches the snow fall into her hair as she repositions herself and slides down on him, her head tossing back in pleasure. Sandor groans when she begins to move, lifts his free hand, water dripping from his fingers and elbow to rest it against her lower back. He pulls her forward just as he rises up, and their chests press together when her legs wind around him, as they close out the day wrapped up in one another, coming undone, rebuilding what they had, so long ago, very nearly lost.

 

Gendry works long hours at his forge, and while he finds joy in his labor, he finds a sort of sorrowful peace in his bedchamber at night. Sansa has been generous with the Brotherhood, giving them rooms in the main keep and out of the servants’ quarters, and when given the choice, he selected Arya’s old rooms as nonchalantly as possible. Sansa knows, he thinks, has divined it out of his voice whenever he speaks of Arya, but he has only said, out loud, that still he pines for the younger Stark daughter to Shireen, that last night when she discovered they were cousins, so she might explain to scowling Rickon that he does not have designs on her. She smiled conspiratorially to him.

“We Baratheons cannot seem to stop thinking of Starks, can we?” She whispered, and Gendry laughed, ducked his head in embarrassment for still carrying a torch, after all these years, for a slip of a girl who had a sharper tongue than any man, and a sharper sword besides. He thinks of her often, more so now that he is in her home and in her chambers, feels haunted by her though he cannot make himself find other quarters. Part of him feels a scoundrel for being here, but it has been so long since Arya herself walked this chamber, slept in this bed, that there is dust and cobwebs everywhere, and Sansa removed the remaining clothing from the wardrobe, giving it to the women and girls in Winter Town. _There is little of her left, here,_ he tells himself.  He still has not completely cleaned it out, not when there is so much work to be done elsewhere, but he attacks it, a bit each day, and now when he falls asleep at night he no longer sneezes from the puff-clouds that rise up whenever he lays his head.

Arya Stark. He wonders what she looks like now, if she’s grown her hair out or wears it short still, wonders what her hot tempered gray eyes look like in a woman’s face. She’d be, what, six and twenty to his thirty one now?  _She could be wed, if she is still alive,_  he thinks to himself from time to time;  _you should be wed yourself, old man._   _You should have a family by now_ , but then he imagines Arya as a mother, tries to dress her in maternal instinct, and he simply cannot cleave the two together. Gendry wonders what stays his hand, what makes him linger on as a bachelor, but then there is simply the fact that he has not found anyone he wants. Not since he was 21, roaming the countryside with a girl of 16 who would sooner strike him in the face than kiss him.

He is hammering and sweating away in the smithy one afternoon, thinking on what next he should clear out and scour clean in her rooms, when there is a sudden uproar in the yard just beyond his door. Gendry shoves it open, hair plastered to his brow and the nape of his neck, a sword in hand, its blade still flame-red and twice as hot from the fires. He watches as two men drag three others, wrists bound with ropes, behind their horses, in from the south gate, and a gray wolf, the size of Rickon’s wild beast, in tow, snarling on the end of a thick chain around its neck. The tied up men swear and spit even as they stagger, cursing the North and the Starks and even the old gods, they are that sour.

“Whatever is the meaning of this?” Sansa demands as the door to the hall bangs open, Sandor’s arm holding it in place for her for her as she enters the yard, pulling a thick gray cloak around her shoulders. Sandor sweeps past her, ever protective, still imposing without his armor, looking like the Lord of Winterfell with the drape of furs hanging from his massive shoulders. His sword is soon drawn when he sees the cluster of men surrounding the chaos, men who spill out from everywhere to see the source of such commotion, and soon they are cursing back at the captives, enraged at their words, but when Sansa stands before them, her household men quiet down, kicking sullenly at the dirty snow beneath the boots, though Brienne cuffs one of the bound men upside the head when he aims an insult to their lady. Sandor glares at him.

“Our scouts caught them between our homesteads,” one man says, swinging down off his horse, approaching Sansa and Sandor. “Heard tales of men in a few villages here and there, asking after a Stark man with a wolf and a woman with an affliction on her face,” he says.

“And who the fuck are  _you_?” Sandor asks. Not for the first time, Gendry must grudgingly admire the man for his ferocious lack of care.

The man remembers his manners then, and bows swiftly to Sansa. “Lady Stark, forgive me, I am Kevin Condon, sworn man to House Cerwyn and thusly loyal bannerman to Winterfell.”

Sansa is frowning in confusion and suspicion, though she nods kindly enough to him after his introduction, and glances to Sandor. Gendry approaches them, standing on Sandor’s other side, sword still in hand, and so he is able to hear her when she speaks, even over the growling of the wolf.

“He meant my brother,” she murmurs, soft as a dove’s wing, and Sandor nods curtly. He looks grim, and when his narrowed gray eyes flick to the captured men, the look turns murderous. He stalks through the cluster of their men, aiming the point of his sword to each bound man’s face.

“So you mean to hunt down Starks in the North? Fucking idiots,” he gruffs, lowers his sword as he turns to Kevin. “There is no man with a wolf here, though I do see a wolf,” Sandor replies, and Sansa turns to look, truly look, at the poor beast. She gasps after a few moments, breathes  _No it cannot be,_  and before even Sandor can put an arm out to stop her, she is approaching the angry, snapping creature as she would a helpless kitten.

“Ny.. Nymeria?” she asks, and the growling, seething wolf lifts its amber eyes to her, and as suddenly as if someone blew out a candle, the snarls are silenced, replaced with a whimper and whine.

“Sansa,  _no,_ ” Sandor says, taking a step towards woman and wolf when his lady extends her hand to the wolf she called Nymeria, but there is no horror to come, no bloodshed, only the tentative sniff and lick from the wolf.  _Direwolf,_ Gendry thinks, recalling Rickon’s own familiar, though the black wolf of the youngest Stark gave him far more anxiety than even this one, angry as it was when it was dragged in. Indeed, under Sansa’s calm touch, the wolf seems utterly approachable, and Gendry’s fingers itch to pet it as his lady does.

Sansa goes so far as to crouch, scratching the she-wolf between her ears, and the wolf named Nymeria is calm as a pup now, lying down at her feet. Gendry looks to Sandor, who watches with something akin to exasperated amusement, and no wonder; Sansa has the same effect over the scarred man. But then the lady of Winterfell stands straight and whirls around to face Kevin Condon.

“Who has put this direwolf in chains?” She snaps, fire in her blue eyes, and her normally liltingly sweet voice is edged with steel hotter than the blade in Gendry’s hand. “Who has trussed up the Stark sigil?”

“My lady, it was not us, but as it was already chained and, as far as we knew, part of these traitors’ party, we brought it along with them. We wish for them to speak their intentions to you in person, so you may question them as you see fit.” She nods finally, removing Nymeria’s restraints herself, tossing the chain into the muddy snow with disgust, and to Gendry’s surprise the creature does not run off, but trots eagerly around the yard, nose to the ground. Most of the crowd back away in fright when the direwolf approaches, but when she comes to him, Gendry simply hefts the hot sword up and away from her face so she will not accidentally burn herself. He is rewarded for his thoughtfulness with a snuffling of his outstretched hand, a light, playful sort of nipping at his fingers, and then she’s off to explore other corners of the yard.

Sansa pulls Kevin aside while Sandor approaches the still mounted Condon man, and the two pairs talk quietly, though Kevin uses emphatic hand gestures as Sansa nods; Sandor has his arms crossed over his chest, looks a shade away from angry though he speaks to a loyal northman, trusting nothing, no one but Sansa. Gendry wants to join them but knows he must wait and be patient, and so he returns to his forge, full of questions and confusion, wondering what all of this means.

“It is Arya’s wolf,” Sansa enthuses at dinner, seated between Sandor and Harwin, with Gendry to Harwin’s right. The smith leans in, mouth ajar as this sinks in. It makes sense, considering Rickon’s own wolf, and he recalls Sansa’s talks along the kingsroad, how all the Stark siblings, even the bastard Jon Snow, had obtained direwolf pups from the same litter, though Sansa’s own had been killed, Robb’s as well with his master. She thought them all dead, along with her siblings, but seeing Rickon and Shaggydog had sparked hope within her.

“Shaggydog is alive, as is Rickon,” she says with an eager smile, sipping her wine. “Nymeria being alive, back in Winterfell, gives me more joy than I can even say. My sister could be alive, she could even be here in the North.”

“The wolf has been on the run a while, though,” Sandor says, hunched over his plate, staring down at the food there, the food for which he seems to lose his appetite. Sansa sobers somewhat, lays a hand on his arm.

“Don’t do that. Don’t go back to that time. This is a good thing, this is something to be happy for,” she says, and finally he clears his throat, nods once, stabs his roast chicken with his fork.

“How did those men come to ensnare the wolf?” Harwin asks, swallowing his bite of food and sitting back in his chair. Gendry wonders too; if she is Arya’s, if they have anything in common, then it must have been difficult catching her. He grins to himself, hoping the wolf took a few fingers.

“Apparently they poisoned her entire pack, though she was so large it only made her ill, and when she was laid up they chained her,” Sansa says bitterly. “They assumed she was Rickon’s wolf, that she would lead them to her master.” Her blue eyes glitter in the low firelight, and even from two seats away Gendry sees the anger there.

“And then Kevin found them?”

“Aye,” Sandor says, finally lifting his eyes from his plate. “They were foolhardy, offering some village folk money to help them flush out Rickon and his doe. The Targaryen woman picked her envoys very poorly.”

“Are there more men like this, looking for him?” Gendry asks, nodding his thanks when Hyle approaches the head table and drops off a pitcher of ale. He refills Harwin’s and his cup, though Sansa and Sandor shake their heads, preferring wine to the beer.

“One of the men we interrogated said that yes, there is a man searching in Dorne, two more over in Essos, and two more in White Harbor,” Sansa says, looking slightly ill. It is Sandor’s turn to comfort her. Gendry’s eyes fall on the hand he places on her knee, and feels a spike of jealousy, a familiar wave of loneliness. A glance down to the trestle tables below will give him a view of Jay and Brienne sitting together, always quiet and withdrawn but ever at each other’s side.  He sighs, drinks his ale.

“He is a good guard, of that I can be certain, perhaps more than any other,” he says into his cup. “I could no more than look Shireen’s way before he was stalking around with his hackles up. If anyone can combat these scouts, dodge them or kill them, it will be Rickon.”

“I hope so,” Sansa says sadly. “In the meantime, though, I think I will send another raven.”

“Perhaps two,” Sandor suggests somewhat cryptically, and Sansa nods with a sigh. They are secretive about where Rickon and Shireen have gone to, though Gendry knows it must be somewhere close to White Harbor, or somewhere a sail away, perhaps Essos, which would explain her displeasure at so many scouts being sent that way.

“What will we do with the scouts we have here?” Gendry asks, and Sandor looks him in the eye with so ruthless a grin that makes his blood run cold to be on the receiving end of it.

“I am going to execute them tomorrow.”

 

Gendry is shocked out of his skull when he opens his chamber door and finds Arya’s wolf lying on his bed, jaws open in so languid a pant that she looks to be smiling. She is the size of a small pony, and there is little enough room for him, but he will not argue with her. Instead, he gingerly sits on the corner of the bed after removing his shirt, trusting Nymeria well enough to present his back to her, and removes his boots before breeches. He pulls a clean nightshirt over his head, as it’s too cold up here to sleep in his smallclothes; he even requires a fire at night, and so he stokes it before turning back to the bed, wondering how in bloody hells one sleeps with a direwolf.

“You’ll not rip my throat out in my sleep, I hope,” he mutters, and she cocks her head to the side at the sound of his voice. “Nymeria,” he states, and she cocks her head the other way. Large as she is, formidable as her fangs are, he laughs at this pup-like display. “Nymeria, down,” he tries, and the wolf gives a growling whine, resting her head on her paws in defiance. “All right, she-wolf, be nice to Gendry, now. I’m a tired bag of bones. I pray to the seven  you let me in my own bed,” and to her credit she does, lifting her head once more to regard him curiously as he gingerly, carefully, draws back the bedclothes, slipping inside. “Thank gods these lords and ladies have big beds in their castles,” he mutters, giving her another wary glance before blowing out the candle beside his bed. Once his heart stops beating quite so fast, Gendry is able to settle down; neither of them move again, and so he falls asleep with the heavy weight of a direwolf next to him.

 

She dreams of Winterfell, and runs the halls of her old home with happy, reckless abandon, careening into walls as she takes the corners too quickly on her four legs. She finds Sansa’s things in her father’s rooms, though her lady mother’s are empty, and it is a temptation to remain here, but she visits the rooms of her other siblings first, prowls the first keep, lifts her wolf head to gaze out of the window on the covered bridge, seeing the snow-covered yard below, muted though it is in the twilight. And then her nose takes her to her old rooms, where it is full of a familiar smell, something that tugs on her, something that pulls her. She leaps onto her old bed, looking around, blinking at the fire burning low in the grate, yawns wide with her sharp teeth, lowers her head to the furs on the bed, the furs she blends into. The smell, again. A familiarity, there.

The door opens and she looks up. A man walks in, black of hair and blue of eye, details she sees easily with her wolf eyes, and he is the source of the scent, mingling here with her own. He strips down and readies for bed, lies down beside her, and she can feel the mattress shift with his arrival, and something stirs deep in her heart.

Arya Stark, name reclaimed, opens her eyes, blinking, staring at the ceiling of her room in the dingy Braavosi inn. Her heart beats like a drum when she puts things together, when she realizes Winterfell is occupied, that Sansa is there, and- and  _him_.  _He_  is there, has found his way to her home, to her bed of all the damned places. Arya sits up, chest heaving as she struggles to breathe under the weight of all that this means. It is the dead of night, but that has never stopped her, and she sees as well in the dark as she does in the daylight. She dresses expertly in the only clothes she owns, never lighting a candle, never alerting anyone to her presence, to her activity, to her intentions. She leaves a few coins on the table in her room and steals like a wisp of smoke down the stairs, out into the Braavosi streets. She will miss it here, but her stay is over.

  _It is time to go home._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more POVs from other Starks next chapter. I wanted to add one at the end but this one got really long, sorry!

They are two days away from Skagos, according to the captain, and while there are no more storms, the sea itself has become one. The few times she’s braved going on deck for fresh air, she clings to ropes and railings for dear life, trying her best to keep her face covered as the boat dips and rises, dips and rises, cresting huge swells only to plunge down their backs. Rickon and she have not been sick to their stomachs but their appetites drop away to nearly nothing, and they sip water and nibble bread, almost thankful for how hard and flavorless it is. Shaggydog is miserable, the horses are restless, and she thinks all of them will be glad to see the stern of this galley.

“I’m scared we will capsize trying to reach there. I’ve heard stories,” she says one afternoon. She is trying to read, to escape this ship by pretending she is elsewhere, but the waves keep bringing her back to their cramped confines.

“I came and left this island once before and I was but a child. We shall do it again, we shall be fine,” he says from the floor beside their bed where she sits. He is cleaning their tack again, trying to occupy himself as well.

“But you were a wildling then. Fearless.” She slaps her book shut and sighs, looking down where he sits and picks at encrusted dirt that clings to the bottoms of their stirrups.

Rickon shrugs. “Even a wildling can drown.” And she must content herself with that truth.

It is a strange thing to think that in just a matter of days, a few handfuls of hours, she will step foot on Skagos, will live there for gods know how long. She hopes her father is all right, hopes Davos is as well, and wonders if they will ever come for her, or if she will call Skagos home for the rest of her days. Shireen misses her father greatly and fears for his life; the long years of fighting for his throne, the long years spent on battlefields have not done much to steel her for the sudden loss of his life. She knew, yes, that it was a possibility, but possibility never outweighs hope, and her hopes were always fulfilled when it came to her father’s survival. Until now.

The closer they get the farther away she feels from him, though this was his mission, his request through his Hand and to be here is to follow his wishes. But once they arrive, they are there, it is completed, and she is about as far away from him down in King’s Landing as one can get while staying in Westeros. As she heads towards the next stage in her life, she is also leaving the last, effectively severing all ties to that world and the woman she was, all save one, and he is currently sleeping next to her. It is late morning and if her hazy memory serves her correctly, he was awake most of the night; whenever she woke he was up and about in the cabin, pacing, watching her, soothing his wolf. They have both been tired, ever since the storm and this tumultuous change in the sea, for sleep does not last long when one rolls from one side of the bed to the other, into their companion at the best, onto the floor at the worst.

Shireen watches him sleep and it strikes her, not for the first time though she feels guilty it hasn’t been more often, how utterly  _his_  life has changed, how much he has forfeited to do what was asked of him.  _He is so young,_  she thinks, but then remembers that kings and queens are crowned when they’re children, that girls have babies when they’re not yet women. Not so very young, then, but young enough in the face of this sort of responsibility. She turns, carefully so as not to wake him now that he’s found enough exhaustion and a big enough lull in the waves to drift off, and lies on her stomach, head propped in her hand as she regards him. It is a temptation to push the hair from his forehead with her fingertip, to run it along the line of his jaw, still visible beneath his light beard, but she tamps it down, heart too full of concern for him and his fatigue.

 _He is brave and selfless. He is handsome, strong and kind. He could make an excellent father,_  her thoughts rear up and run of their own accord, and it floors her when _that_ pops up in her mind. She has become aware of the fact that she is in love with him, thinks he feels the same, but that is a recent revelation, and while they are, for all intents and purposes, going to start a life together, it is partly out of Davos’s request of him, or at least that’s the foundation of it. She feels like a pining girl, as if she is making castles out of clouds and air, but still, here is a man who has sacrificed nearly everything for her, for his king her father. She remembers his words of doubt over being a Stark; if she learned anything from her father about Starks, this is the sort of thing they undertake selflessly, that they do for the right of it instead of shying away from the difficulty.

But still, she must keep her head; they’ve only come together as lovers for a fortnight, maybe a bit longer, though she’d truly be a fool if she didn’t think things had been brewing long before that. The last two to grasp that had been they themselves; Sansa, Sandor, Meera, even Junah, at the very beginning had her ideas, and that makes her remember. _The moon tea,_  she thinks with a roll of her eyes and a grin, shaking her head at herself for being so foolish _._ Then there is a tipping of the boat and she rocks against him; the extra bit of motion is too much, and as she’s smiling down at him Rickon opens his eyes with a start. He frowns in momentary, sleepy confusion, but then he closes his eyes once more, a smile on his face.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, and Shireen grins, tucks herself into his side, head resting on his chest as he pulls her close with an arm around her shoulders. He reaches with his other hand to her leg, fingers sliding behind her knee, and draws it up his body until it rests, crooked, across his lower belly and hips, the skirt of her dress draped across his lower body. She is his blanket as much as he is her pillow.

“You’re too pretty for your own good,” she replies, and it makes him laugh, a rumpled, sleep-wrinkled thing, even as he drifts off once more, the boat’s motions now more a lullaby than a call to arms. He falls into a sleep that is far heavier now, she can tell from his slack jaw and the way his arm around her slips off her shoulders to the mattress beneath them. It makes her smile, makes her wonder if he requires such comfort from her to rest easy, if it is the reassuring weight of her that proves she is still there and that he has not failed in his job of protecting her. Shireen feels as restless as the horses below them, and so she tests her theory, gently lifting his hand that still rests on her thigh and putting it on his stomach before slowly, slowly sliding her leg off of him as she lifts her head and upper body until she is seated beside him.

Shireen could sigh, looking at him, head thrown to the side in sleep, his long neck stretched from the position. His hair has gotten longer on their journey, though she supposes hers has as well; it’s easier to note on him, however, and his hair, once in a tangle of curls now hangs straighter from the added weight. He is in nothing more than tunic and long pants, is barefoot since there is nowhere to go on this boat, and the vulnerability is such a novelty to her, when on the road he would sleep fully dressed with a dagger, his sword beside him. If she could do so without waking him she would cup one of his feet in her hands, it is such a strange sight; he has been naked aplenty in front of her these past two weeks, the three days they stayed ensconced in their inn. But there is something about this man being barefoot while clothed, being only partly undone that makes her heart ache. To be so close to him, to have gotten this near him, to have found her way into his heart, is almost too big a gift to accept, is something she never expected, not with anyone, let alone the wildest Stark, the brooding slash of temper who now laughs as easily as a boy with her, who runs his hands and mouth along her body with the tenderness and delicacy of a lifelong lover. Finally she hazards a touch, the tips of her fingers in his hair, and she is rewarded with a deep sigh in his sleep and nothing more, much to her relief. She smiles softly, twisting a lock of it between thumb and forefinger before letting it fall against his temple.

He needs his sleep, and she has lain abed for far too long to rest any more, so Shireen eases herself to the edge of the bed where her boots are next to his, and she smiles to see them side by side, traces the worn leather cuff of his right boot where it clearly chafes against the edge of his saddle.  _I may not be his wife but I am living as if I were_ , she thinks, not unhappily, slipping her boots onto her feet, standing and walking with light tread to where her cloak is draped over a bolted down chair. She picks up a book, thinking she will read next to the horses, to keep them company and stretch her legs a bit on the walk there, and pauses in the open doorway of their cabin, gazing back at him. She is glad he does not wake, but it made her feel good to think that perhaps he slept so soundly because of her presence.

There is a growling whine from Shaggydog just as she makes a move to close the door behind her, and there he is, his head wedged through the gap between jamb and door, and Shireen rolls her eyes. “Oh come on then, you silly old thing,” she whispers, her fingers skimming the fur of his back as he trots out into the narrow hallway beside her. “But if you scare any men or animals I’m making you come right back up here,” and she is left to muse over how in seven hells she’d make a direwolf do anything he didn’t want to do. But he is well behaved, over-calm, and Shireen frets over whether or not he feels well and is eating enough; gods know she and Rickon have been eating the bare minimum to stave off triggering nausea, and she wonders how Shaggy feels, how the horses are doing. “Poor creatures,” she murmurs as they walk side by side, her hip pressed against his shoulder blade in the close quarters, but even when the twisting hall opens into the largest room of the ship, two long rows of half-empty stalls, the wolf stays close by her side. It makes her smile.

To his credit, Shaggydog does not snarl or growl at the few other animals that occupy the first several spaces, though they are all nervous enough when they catch his scent, but the horses are well used to him and do nothing when he slinks in between them. Shireen closes the half door to the stall and sits on a bale of hay with her book already open and waiting. There is a strong scent of animal but the crew has kept these stalls clean, and it nothing she cannot handle; it’s almost pleasing to smell something other than the salt of the sea, the permeating aroma of fish. The rocking of the boat seems less intense here as well, and she makes a mental note to tell Rickon; even if there are only two days left at sea, it will still be good to enjoy calmer quarters.

She is soon immersed in the words on the page, and does not know how long she sits there reading; the wolf’s eyes are drowsing and the horses content themselves with the swishing of tails and occasional bobbing of their heads, when there are footsteps approaching, and her hands are a flurry in making sure her hood covers her face sufficiently before she bows her head over her book. Shaggydog, lying between the horses, lifts his head, lips already curled back in a snarl but she shakes her head no and puts a finger to her lips. He does not growl but keeps his teeth showing, silent solidarity there on the hay-strewn floor. She has managed to keep largely from sight save for the captain, at whose table she’d always sit on his left, and relied on the rumor of quaking demureness to keep from removing her hood, and does not want to throw away all of their precaution just two days from safety.

“If you don’t think it’s odd, you’re stupider than I thought,” a man says, his voice slightly slurred, and there is the sound of a stall being opened. She closes her eyes in anticipatory embarrassment, for if they find her now she will be thought of as an eavesdropper, and she is about to rise to her feet and sweep out of there with a word of apology, but then the other man speaks.

“I never said it weren’t odd, I said it’s plain to see who she is,” and Shireen freezes in horror. She is the only woman on board, so they must speak of her. They speak of oddness, and they speak of _her_ in the next breath, speak of her as if they know she is Shireen Baratheon. She locks eyes with Shaggydog, who stares back at her. Long ago, Shireen was warned not to look wild beasts in the eye, but he is motionless, has even given up on the snarling, and so she sits, not daring to breathe for fear of making noise, seeking calm in the green eyes of the wolf.

“Oh aye? And who is she? Aside from an uptight bitch who don’t so much as take her bloody hood down than give a man a smile,” and she is incredulous to hear such bitterness from a complete stranger, to whom she owes nothing. The stall door slides shut and there is the sound of swigging liquid, smacking lips, and a hideous belch.

“Don’t you pay attention when we’re on shore? Two men there in White Harbor, lurking round the docks asking about a woman with scales like a snake on her face and a man with a wolf.” Another stall opens, and she closes her eyes, trying to count how many down they are from the men. There are five stalls on each side and their stall is the fourth; there is one more between them.

“We’ve got the man and the wolf, that’s for certain, and to be true she hides her face well enough. What do they want with her?”

“Says she’s wanted by the dragon queen down south. Tell me you’ve heard of _her,_ ” the first man sniggers, and his fellow crewman laughs as well.

“That I know, aye,” he says. “So that’s all? They just want her?”

“No, you daft idiot, or I’d not give two shits. But when there’s mention of coin, 500 gold pieces to be exact, _then_ I’m paying attention. The second we turn this ship around from that godforsaken island, I’m marching my arse to that shithole tavern they’re staying--” he starts, but there is nothing left for him to say after Shaggydog gets to his feet and with a seething, wet sounding growl in the back of his throat, leaps clear over the half door into the narrow walkway, colliding into the door across the way before snarling.

“Seven hells!”

“Bleeding Mother, it’s that fucking wolf!” And there is a scrambling sound, a scuffling she can hear over the sounds of the direwolf’s anger, and before long they are alone. Shireen is petrified to move, for if they know she has overheard them, if they suspect anything, then they may try to take her right now. So she sits there, doubled over, forehead pressed to her knees and can do nothing but try desperately to swallow the sob that is caught in her throat, that could betray her whereabouts.

 

When Rickon wakes, he knows before he opens his eyes that she is not there with him. His chest heaves with panicked, uncaught breath and he finds himself in a cold sweat as well, clammy to the touch. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed and the boat chooses to pitch in that moment, exacerbating his disorientation and sending him staggering into the wall.

“Fuck,” he says, stumbling like a drunkard to the cabin door. His head swims and thoughts roil; he hopes Shaggydog is still with her, now that he is no longer in his wolf’s mind. He remembers everything, and clings to it for dear life, as surely as he clings to the thin door frame, finding his bearings in the ship. He nods to himself once he has the right of it, and sprints to the animals where he knows she last was. He retraces their steps easily, on two feet now instead of four, and finds his wolf where he himself last was, in the stand against the two sailors who plan to betray them.

“Shireen,” he calls hoarsely, breathing heavily, his hand resting briefly, gratefully on his familiar’s head before brushing gently past him. Grey Wind trumpets a whinny of greeting, but it is one he must, for the time being, ignore. “Shireen, it’s me,” he repeats, and then he hears her, a cracking, dry sob as she calls his name.

“Rickon,” she says, voice broken into pieces from fear, standing up from inside the horses’ stall. He sees the tears shining on her face, and more in her eyes that wait to follow them. He does not like to see her upset, does not like to see tears on her face, and knowing the nature of this cause lights his anger aflame. His mouth sets in a hard line. “Oh gods, Rickon, they know,” she cries, and he pulls open the door between them, removing the obstacle so he might hold her. She comes to him so forcefully he staggers back into Shaggy and curses when she steps on his toes. “Oh,” she breathes, looking down. “But you have no shoes on,” she says, and it is almost a question, one to which he shrugs in response.

“I had to come to you,” he says simply, because what other reason could there be? She sighs with shaky relief against him, and he glances over his shoulder to the doorway, half expecting to see the traitors waiting with clubs and axes. “Listen, we must get back to our cabin, and there we must stay until we make land, you especially.” Shireen nods and takes his arm, and they are thankful to reach their room without running into anyone, let alone men who would betray them for coin that likely does not exist. He sits her down and insists she drink watered wine to calm her nerves, to dull the heightened senses of fear, and when she asks him to join her he does not refuse.

“What are we going to do?” She asks, slicing into a hard wheel of cheese to help soak up the wine, and he has never heard her sound so full of despair, not even when he stood beside her in front of her tent as he showed her where her father surrendered. She looks up at him as he paces the room, and he stops at that question, stops at that sorrowful look of hers. She extends her hand, holding out the food, and he takes it from her with a nod.

“Shireen. You know what I am going to do,” he says, popping a morsel of cheese in his mouth before passing her the wineskin, half filled with cold water.

“I know what you _want_ to do, but how can you? I did not see their faces, I hid the entire time.”

“And that was wise of you to do, sweet girl, but you were not the only one who was there,” he says after swallowing, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, no, there were chickens and goats and horses and direwo- _oh,_ ” she says, stopping herself. Shireen lifts a hand halfway, as if she was going to cover her mouth with it, but then it drops to her lap as she sits on their bed, staring up at him in wonder. “ _Oh._ The dreams?”

“Aye, the dreams,” he says with a smile; she is so clever. “Why do you think Shaggydog went with you? Why do you think I slept so soundly?”

“That’s why you knew to come. You were there,” she says faintly, and he nods. “You were there, and you _knew_ you were there?”

“I told you, you bring it out of me. I walked with you as a wolf, and I saw their faces. I know them now. Believe me, they will not set foot off this damned boat,” he says with a bloodthirsty grin. She stares at him hard a moment before averting her eyes, looking at the wineskin in her lap. He sweeps down and sits back on his haunches in front of her, takes her hands in his. He presses his mouth to her knuckles and pushes her hood back, trying to earn back her gaze. “Come now, love, I told you I would protect you, and you told me you would trust me. This is part of what I have to do. Please, don’t be, I don’t know, don’t be upset, don’t be offended. I told you I would kill any man who tried to take you.”

She looks up at him and there are tears in her eyes; he is mortified, knowing he put them there, is no different from the bastards who upset her so horribly just minutes before. But then she smiles. “I am not offended. I am _relieved_ ,” she says, and he pauses a moment, hardly sure he hears her correctly, before cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. Her hands come up to his chest, fisting his tunic, and he rocks forward onto his knees, and blessedly the sea behaves herself and allows them this moment, this kiss that reassures and fuels him for what he must do as soon as the sun sets.

He has his boots on _now_ , though he walks as silently as he would without, and the ship’s creaking comes to his defense even when he falters. The halls are mostly dark, mostly empty, for another fat cluster of clouds are above them, spilling rain into the sea and out onto the decks. Rickon has been skulking around the ship like a stowaway these past three hours, tracking the two fools who were so stupid as to speak their plans out loud. They are Wes and Boyd and they are frequently together, no doubt their friendship has been strengthened with the thought of splitting 500 gold dragons on whores and wine. They are currently below decks which is why Rickon lingers; he does not find joy in the struggle of dragging not one but two bodies on deck and then overboard, and so he waits in shadows, waits for them to pass him up the groaning wooden steps to above deck where he might come upon them unawares.

He chews his lower lip, squatting in a dank, musty corner just outside their sleeping quarters, thinking of Shireen, how terrified she was, and he keeps her in mind to keep his blood up, keep alert. _Sansa was right,_ he thinks with a grim sort of smile, though anger twists it into more of a sneer, he is sure. _Duty and love have mated inside me into something formidable, not pulled me in different directions._ He is sure he would go through this with regardless of how he feels about her, but he must admit, here in the shadows that loving her makes it far easier. There is simply no hesitation, no second thought, because if anyone thinks they are taking his woman from him, thinks they will hurt the one he loves, they are not only wrong, they are dead men walking.

And walk they do, perhaps forty minutes later, out of their quarters, heading up to where the ropes and pulleys and sails await them. They do not stagger as much as before, having likely slept off their midday drunkenness, but they still stink of sour wine, stale breath, and surliness. They are both sinewy, wiry men, easily ten years older than Rickon, skin tanned and reddened from wind and sun, and their hair is damp from the sweats of a wine-soaked sleep, from weeks without bathing, and they reek from both.  Wes has the deeper voice, and Boyd is rattish in features and in the pitch of his scraping, high voice.

“We could just take her, Boyd, instead of having to wait for _them_ to come to this shit island, and then bring her all the way back. Kill the man and his wolf, and truss her up well and good.” Rickon grips his hands into fists, focusing on how conspicuous it would be to drag them overboard in view of the others. He would kill them with his bare hands now if it were beneficial. He focuses on the press of the wall against his spine, how all his weight rests in the balls of his feet, and tries to keep murder beneath the surface instead of boiling over.

“Oh aye, and how do you think the captain would feel about that? He gets on well enough with the pair of them, and I’ll not mutiny, not when I’ve 500 gold pieces waiting for me.”

“Hey, now you promised me, if I’m to help then you’re to share your spoils,” Wes grumbles as they stomp up the stairs and out into the rain. He is close enough within earshot to hear a few tasteless comments about sharing _her_ spoils, and it takes everything he has in him not to fly up those stairs with a snarl and rip their throats out with his bare teeth. He shakes it off; he spent too long in his wolf’s mind, and while the bloodlust is helpful, the impatience and lack of care is not. So he steadies himself, counts to fifty, is about to steal up the stairs when Wes comes back, muttering something about forgetting his wine, and Rickon is inspired with a sudden burst of imagination.

Wes walks nearly past him in complete oblivion to the other man, and Rickon gets to his feet, following him into the otherwise empty room. There are a dozen hammocks swinging listlessly with the movement of the boat, and when Wes bends down beneath one of them to pick up a skin of wine, Rickon seizes his opportunity and claps a hand over the man’s mouth and nose. There is far more of a struggle than he anticipated, and the drunkard walks backward, slamming his attacker into the wall repeatedly. Rickon grunts but holds fast, and now Wes is clawing at his hand, trying to steal a breath in the midst of this fight. Winterfell’s youngest holds fast, however, and for good measure swings his other arm around and presses his right hand on top of his left. He wraps his legs around the man’s torso as he is still pinned against the wall, and Wes staggers under the weight and falls to his knees, ribs expanding as his lungs work in vain for a breath, and the strength flees the man quickly now.

“You will never have her. You will _never_ hurt her,” Rickon repeats, on his own knees behind the scheming son of a bitch, and though the boat rocks and they slide to and fro, each man on their knees, one of Wes's hands braced against the floor, Rickon keeps his hands clamped firm. When it’s over, when Wes falls lifeless to the floorboards beneath them, Rickon falls back onto his arse, panting from the exertion. He must be quick, however, for he knows not how long the ordeal took, and does not know if another man will come to seek this dead one out. He hauls him onto his back and straddles his chest, grabbing the wineskin that lies on the floor not two feet away. He uncorks it and opens the dead man’s mouth, still slack, and pours wine into it, working his throat with another hand to get some of the stuff down. He spills some on the man’s shirt for good measure, though in truth he stunk enough on his own in life to suggest death by drink.

He forces the skin into the man’s hand and stands, wiping his forehead with a forearm as he surveys his work, and then the corpse expels its contents in more than one way and he’s off, trying not to gag. He leaps back to the hall, and at last slips upstairs into the rainy, cold night. He is grateful for the reviving chill, and though he is soon drenched from the rain, it is far more refreshing than the anger and sweat and stench that soaked him below deck. The ship’s deck does not provide much cover, but he has not spent two weeks on it for nothing, and so he knows his way around relatively well. He squints in the dark, listens for men calling to one another; the captain is asleep, no doubt, and that pleases him, for if he has to kill the whole fucking lot of them up here, he will, and he’d rather not kill the kind captain, and rather not have him as a witness. The few men who are here, however, impress him as they always do with their strong sea legs. There is a man taking a piss over the edge of the boat, thighs braced expertly against the railing, and when he shouts in response to another man’s command, Rickon is practically overjoyed to hear the mastermind Boyd, the scheming prick who planned it all himself. _This will be easier than I thought,_ he thinks as he half crawls towards where the man stands at the stern. He is winded, still out of breath, but this should be far easier than the other man.

“What the bloody hells,” Boyd says with a grunt of surprise as Rickon swiftly stands up just behind him, a dagger at the man’s throat and another hand clapping over his mouth, cutting off his swearing. He takes his hands from his cock and grips the wooden rail, and the boat rises up a swell; if it weren't for Boyd's strong legs and grip on the railing, a Rickon realizes they would have pitched overboard, but his gratitude is nothing to his anger.

“You thought to sell her,” he snarls in Boyd’s ear, and the man stills immediately, head tipping back to try and get his throat away from the blade.

“I- I- I don’t know what you mean,” he stammers, his voice muffled against Rickon’s palm, and Rickon presses the knife firmly against his throat. The rain makes everything slippery, but he has enough fury left in him to finish this.

“You would steal her, rape her, sell her to men who would do the same, and that will not happen. Not on my watch,” he growls, and with brutal force Rickon’s left hand shoves the blade in, wrenches to the side and slices open the man’s throat. “Shireen Baratheon is mine, you dog, and you will _never_ take her from me,” and with that, Rickon steps back, kicks the man in the center of his back, and watches as he tumbles into the white wake of the ship, the churn of waves soon stealing him, and there is no time for even a sailor to see him, to call _man overboard_ before he disappears into the hungry sea. Rickon waits only a few moments to let the rain wash the blood off his knife before he wipes it on the thigh of his pants. He spits into the water for good measure.

“May you burn in all seven of the hells,” he says, and turns back to head below deck, to find Shireen, to tell her she is safe and that he loves her.


	14. Chapter 14

The wind bites and snaps and stings this high up, this far north; it has no kind kisses for a person’s skin or eyes, and yanks at hair as if it had fingers made of bone or of ice. It rips snow from the clouds high above and flings it down with hatred, vengeance, scorn, though there are places here that are so high, one feels they themselves could claw the snow and sleet down from the clouds with one’s own hands. In a word, it is _cold_ here, but it is something that Osha does not mind, even today as she keeps distant vigil for the ship that bears Rickon and his wife. _Fugitive wife_ , she corrects, recalling when Tor, head of House Magnar, read the raven’s note to her over a week ago. _Leave it to him to steal himself one of those,_ she thinks with a grin, her teeth feeling the punch of winter in the air. 

She has never called herself his mother, but there was something like a mother’s pride, or whatever it is she thinks that would feel like, just to see his handwriting on the long, thin scroll, messy and scrawling and poorly spelled though it was, according to the maester here (and he is as rough as they all are).  It was illegible to her as all words are, but Tor was able to understand it, and there was a fierceness of love for him there in her heart to see proof that he is a man of letters now. For true, there was also a flood of happiness to hear he was returning to Skagos for their protection, and it is that joy that has brought her up to the stone bridge linking the keep to the watchtower each day since they received his word, even though she knew it would take them twice as long to reach Kingshouse as any raven. It is why she is here now, arms folded across her chest, looking as wild and as large as a bear in the layers of furs she wears; indeed, she looks near as wide as Tor though not as tall, and she is a tall woman.

 _Woman_ ; Rickon brings a woman home, and that makes her bones ache, to feel how much time has passed by. He left a boy of thirteen, and returns a man of twenty with a wife in tow, to introduce to his old Osha, well past her forties now, sharing a bed with a barbarian in his sixties though you would not know it from the way he carries on, scrabbling over the rocky terrain like a goat. _He_ is _a randy old goat,_ she thinks, though he is handsome enough, tall and strapping with a barrel chest, hair still brown though peppered with gray, to keep her interested despite his somewhat limited intelligence. But she did not come here for the men, she came here for the boy, and she did not stay for the witty conversation, she stayed for the strength and freedom, and for the chance that, perhaps, one day, Rickon would return.

“Ah,” she says with a smile, for there, closer to the shoreline than to the horizon, is the white of sails, half disguised amidst the frothing whitecaps in a sea so sinisterly blue it looks black from this high up, half hidden in the slashing of snow, fat flakes that confuse and blot out one’s vision, that can whirl by so quickly up here that lesser guards will fall to their deaths from too dizzying a storm. It is the oncoming storm, however, that makes the ship visible this afternoon, for as the soot gray clouds choke out the blindingly white ones overhead, they make it that much easier to see so many miles down and out to sea.

“Ship! Ship!” Carrick cries from within the watchtower, ringing the bell as Tor commanded after reading Rickon’s missive, and when she peers over the edge of the bridge she sees the massive bonfire being lit at the sea-end of their stone dock that stretches out half a mile into the sea, to guide them safely – or relatively safely – into port. Osha grins. _I may be past my prime,_ she thinks, _I may not read and I may not embroider, but I can still spot a ship faster than these young shits can._ She turns, giving one last look to the boat riding the swells before heading through the stone archway and down the steep steps through the keep and into the hall, into the warmth and out of the hellacious wind.

The keep is tall and narrow, reaching like an upthrust fist into the sky, its rooms small, curving and dark, but the hall is surprisingly spacious considering the castle’s limited space between outcrops and sharp, narrow crevasses. It winds around jutting cliffs, a meandering thing rather than the long and straight hall of Winterfell, the only other she’s seen, but she rather prefers this, how it is cave-like even this far up, though there are peaks aplenty on Skagos that dwarf Kingshouse. There are few windows if there are any, to keep the wind and chill out, and so the light, even in morning, is muted, the air warmed with fire rather than sunlight, the smell smoky, deep, and secretive.

“They will be here before nightfall,” Osha says by way of greeting, when she finds Tor sitting at his table, a serving girl on his lap as if she belonged there. Osha cuffs the wench upside the head as she passes by to her own seat at Tor’s left. “Wine, girl, and make it quick. It’ll warm his blood faster than your skinny arse, besides,” she says. The young woman scrambles off his lap with the grace of a duckling, and Tor slaps her rump with his gnarled hand.

“If you’ll not give me sons then maybe she will,” he huffs, and she rolls her eyes at his petulance, wondering how an overgrown child expects to raise any.

“I am in no mothering mood. Never have been, never will,” she says as she gives the kitchen wench a withering glare before snatching up the wine cup she sets before her. He wanted sons on her, has for years now, but she’s neither that young nor stupid enough to fool herself, and so it is a sorrowful mystery for him each month when her moon’s blood comes. He attempts it with the servants and a few of the smallfolk women that pay him enough attention, but to no avail. Osha will not take chances, especially not while Rickon sails for them. She may not be maternal, but she is practical, and she knows how fondly Tor was of Rickon, and she knows her herbs. It is no big thing to keep a man from sprouting his seed, so long as you let him spill it where and when he wants.

“You say that, and yet you have been up on that bridge every day for at least an hour waiting for your little lord,” he smirks through his long beard, and she laughs, for he has her, there.

“Aye, and what of it? I look forward to seeing him,” she says with a shrug, leaning back in her chair, swirling the wine in her cup. Another member of his household walks by, dragging a cask of ale on a low flat cart through the hall and out into the narrow yard between the kitchens and hall, the only flattish strip of land this high up in the crags. Osha gives Tor a grin when he looks sidelong her way.

“Apparently you’re looking forward to seeing him as well, judging by how drunk you aim to get tonight,” she says dryly, and Tor snorts at her folly.

“Who says I am not drunk already?”

She does not bother to go back to the bridge and linger uselessly, though she is restless, fingers itching as if the only thing to cure it is to clutch the granite wall as she stares into the sea, but instead plays at being lady of the house, seeing that their guests’ chamber fire is lit, that spiced wine is heated, that a great tub, big enough for even old Tor to submerge himself in, is dragged to their room and filled with piping hot water and tended to until they arrive. She may only be pretending to be a lady of the house, but even she would want a long scrub and soak after such a cold, dank journey, and she was never used to such luxury before coming here. They may be barbarians and they may be as ruthless as wildlings, more so perhaps, but there are benefits to stone fortresses and life south of the Wall.

Finally the bell clangs again signaling that the boat is ready to dock and she quickly heads to the chamber she shares with Tor, piling the furs back onto her shoulders where they drape down her back to her thighs over the long-sleeved cloak she wears even indoors. Her hair is pulled back into haphazard braids, threaded through with shell and bead, and while she knows the wind will wreak havoc upon it once more, she still gives it a nervous pat, chiding herself for acting like a girl. Tor comes in to fetch her but she shoves past him with a grin she cannot conceal.

“Away with you, old man, I need no escort,” she says, but he grabs her firmly around the upper arm, swinging her back towards him as if they were in a dance. He holds her firmly, flush to his chest and hips, and glares down at her, a spark in his brown eyes.

“Maybe not, woman, but forget not what _I_ need,” and he pulls her in for a rough kiss, his hand grabbing the left cheek of her arse, kneading it with greedy fingers. She squirms, struggles against him before he finally lets her break free. She shoves him in the chest and he grunts, passion already ignited from such a small exchange.

“As if I had a moment’s rest to even _hope_ to forget it,” Osha says, and he is all hands as the two of them, preceded and followed by a total of four guards, descend the winding stairs down a long, crooked turret, clinging to the rock face, that protects them from the weather. It stretches from the base of Kingshouse’s main gate, a wall really, considering the only front entrance is by the turret stairs, down to where the trees begin, a thinnish strip of pine and cedar that houses several small clusters of smallfolk, and reaches just to the sand of the shore. If Rickon brings horses, two of the men will lead them the longer way around, closer to Driftwood Hall of House Stane, where a goat path leads up a narrow but traversable valley towards the rear gate of Kingshouse.

It takes twenty minutes to reach the pines, and another twenty to reach the shore-end of the dock, but despite that time, the boat has just managed to reach the T-shaped end of the dock, the sea is that much of an untamed monster. At one end of the T is the massive bonfire they lit to guide it in, and at the other a handful of smallfolk are working quickly to catch ropes as they’re tossed from the side of the boat, to tie them securely to the great rings on the side of the dock. Osha pushes past Carrick and Eben, the guards who preceded them, and has an unhindered view down the long half mile dock as the ship finally moors itself and a large gangplank is lowered down between the two structures.

First it is the horses, wind bringing the nervous whinnies and snorts to her ears, heads tossing as one rears up before being coaxed down the plank and the other simply balks, stubborn as a mule.

“Bour, Craig, you’ll be taking those poor beasts up the goat path,” Tor bellows, and since he is downwind, she can barely hear him. Osha glances up at the cloud cover; the captain and crewmen will have to wait this storm out, for already the sky grows nearly black though it is not nightfall yet. Once Rickon and his woman disembark then they will extend guest right to the sailors, and her mind is full of how many extra goats they will need to slaughter, how many more fish will need to be added to the stew, if they’ve enough straw to scatter in front of the hearth of the great hall for their pallets when she sees a tall, strong shouldered man step up to the plank, and Osha’s breath catches in her throat as she comes to a stop to watch him; there is still a quarter of a mile between them but she _knows_ who that is; it is Rickon, come home to her.

He stoops, bending to retrieve something, and then she grins when she realizes he has lifted a woman, his woman, from the boat onto the plank, and holds her steady as they both walk down to the dock. _Not just a man of letters, but one of gentle manners as well,_ and she can hardly connect that gesture to the reckless, savage boy she sent to the mainland seven years earlier. They greet their horses, and the girl seems affectionate to hers, the wild one who reared up before trotting down the plank, from what Osha’s sharp eyes can see in the onslaught of this dark weather and from this distance. And then there is a shout of men, a scattering of them, both sailor and smallfolk alike as a great wolf leaps onto the plank and lopes down the long dock towards her.

“Shaggy!” Osha cries, though the wind whips it back to the trees and the shore, but the wolf quickens his pace, tearing down the stone dock.

“Fucking hells,” one guard says from somewhere behind her but she has no fear, not of this wolf, and as he gets nearer to her he slows, until he walks right up to her and lets her wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face against the black fur between his shoulder blades. He is a whining, growling, panting thing as if he were but a pup, and not a fully grown half-myth. When she releases him he wheels around and bounds back to his master, who strides towards them with the strength and confidence of a hundred wildlings, she thinks, and Osha forgets herself to run after the wolf, to run to Rickon, her little lord.

When she flings her arms over his broad shoulders he catches her, the impact punching out a breathless laugh from his lungs, and she is taken aback by how much he has _grown_. A short beard is rough against the side of her face; the hilt of a sword bumps against her waist, well-tempered with blood by now, she has no doubt; and he holds her, easily, full of strength, with just one arm though her feet are well off the ground, as his other hand is clasped within his _wife’s_. Tears sting her eyes, and she struggles to master herself before she slides back down to earth, stepping back to regard him. The guards bringing the horses to Kingshouse pass by as carefully as they can, and there is a moment of awkward, giddy smiles, unsure glances between the three of them, before he speaks.

“Osha,” he says fondly, and when she lifts a hand to his cheek he smiles, tipping his head into the touch, resting his hand over it for a moment. “You’ve gotten softhearted in your old age, I see,” he says through a grin, and she scowls to hide her laugh, drawing her hand back an inch to slap him for his pluck. “Hey!”

“You earned it well and good you did, talking to your poor friend with that devil’s tongue of yours,” she says, patting his cheek fondly before she turns to the woman beside him, whose face is hidden in her hood. “You’d be using it better to introduce this little creature, before I rip it out with pincers.”

Rickon slides a look to his woman, who lifts her face to his, and he grins. “I told you it was barbaric here, love.” And he leans in close to Osha’s ear. “This is Shireen, though I beg you not to say that name until these men have gone on their way,” and he jerks his head backward towards the ship.

Osha smiles, introducing herself to Shireen, but remembering the impending storm makes her frown. “We cannot send them on their way, Rickon, the storm approaching will turn their ship into kindling.”

He shrugs, brutally aloof. “I do not care. Send them to Driftwood Hall, then, but they will not stay at Kingshouse. I forbid it.” They hear the boom of Tor’s voice as he finally approaches them, and Rickon turns to kiss Shireen’s head through her cloak before brushing gently past them both. Osha takes her by the arm and they walk together in his wake; they watch the young man stalk towards the elder, shoulders thrown back and head jutting forward with palpable aggression. Shireen gasps, but Osha lays a hand on her arm, squeezing lightly when Rickon wrenches his sword from its sheath, aiming the point directly to the head of House Magnar.

“Come, Rickon, meet me your wife!” Tor says, his beard split sideways in a jovial grin.

“Hear me now, old man,” Rickon shouts, the point of his sword aimed for Tor’s jugular, stopping only when the thing nearly pricks his skin. “We are wedded and bedded, and there will be no First Night for you or any other fucker on this cunt island, or I will wear your bowels for a belt.”

Shireen cries _Rickon, whatever are you doing_ but Osha and Tor burst into laughter as Rickon grins, glancing over his shoulder with an _it’s all right, love_  before looking back at Magnar, lowering his sword and driving its point into the stone and leaning against it like an old man uses a cane, his right fist on his hip.

“Well,” he says with relish. “I hope you’ve missed me, you old bastard, for I intend to get drunk as a dog tonight and make you wish I never came back.”

Tor Magnar roars with laughter and claps Rickon on the back in a mighty hug, looking at Osha as the two women come to a halt just beside them. “This son of a bitch hasn’t changed a bit,” he says.

“Don’t talk about Osha like that,” Rickon grins over his shoulder, and Osha lift her chin in pride, unable to help herself.

Shireen is staring up at her throughout the exchange, mystified, but Osha only shrugs, says “You’ll get used to it in time” before patting her arm and letting her go with a press to her shoulders to send her back to her man. He bends his head towards her as she speaks to him, takes her hand and pulls it in to rest in the crook of his elbow, her voice soft and unintelligible amidst this gale, and Rickon laughs, kisses her, laughs again. Osha walks behind them, Tor ahead, gesturing and bellowing as he is wont to do, most likely unaware that they none of them can barely hear a word he says.

They send Carrick and Eben to lead the captain and his men through the trees to Driftwood Hall and after the near hour-long climb to Kingshouse, which tires out Rickon along with Shireen, who tell them they have not truly eaten in over ten days, Osha leads the young lovers to their chambers. But before she leaves the hallway outside their room, she draws Rickon in for a true embrace, one he returns warmly, head bowing to rest his cheek on her shoulder, and this time, the tears do not obey her.

“I wasn’t sure if I would ever see you again,” she manages to squeeze out before a sob catches her unaware, and she swallows, tries to breathe through it. She only had him under her wing for three years, three to the seven she’s been apart from him, but they were precious to her, and the memory of their time together comes flooding back, washing over her, though she hugs a man to her now, not the boy she knew.

“I wasn’t either,” he says, voice strained and rough around the edges, a man’s answer to the threat of crying, and it’s muffled against her furs and cloaks. She lifts a hand and smoothes the windswept auburn down to the nape of his neck; it is strong and corded with muscle beneath her fingers. “But I’m here now. I am back. I am back.”

 

“Star? Star what?” she says, pretending to drink from her cup of wine. She has sipped a little, yes, but she knows better than to imbibe too much when she’s on a hunt, and hunting she is, though it distracts somewhat from her intention to go home to Winterfell.  She hunts in the small but clean Sea Swift tavern in the city of White Harbor and her prey is information, a far harder thing to track down than a person, but the things she has heard make it that much more important.

“No, not ‘ _star_ ,’ you daft girl, _Stark_. That’s the family name. They say they’ll pay gold dragons for information on the whereabouts of a girl with scales like a fish, a dog the size of an aurochs and a Stark man.” The barkeep leans over as he tells her this, and the fantasy of riches dances in his eyes like candlelight. _This old fool has the nerve to call_ me _daft?_ She wants to remind him that the entire city of White Harbor should pay fealty to the Stark family, but Arya is playing dumb right now, and apparently she is playing it very well, indeed.

“A woman with fish scales? A dog the size of an aurochs?” She asks incredulously with a snort. “Sounds stark raving _mad_ if you ask me. Who are these people even asking for such fanciful beasts? A mummer’s show and menagerie?” She pretends to laugh at her own joke and the old man rolls his eyes at her.

“Two men down at an inn by The Lazy Eel. Mind, now, a young girl, pretty as you are, shouldn’t be going down there on your own,” he says hastily, assuaging his guilt in giving her such a juicy lead to such a dangerous, immoral place. Arya is momentarily amused by being called pretty; she has been horse face, has been a hundred other faces in her short lifetime, and called a hundred things to match them, but never will she get used to the compliments. The Lazy Eel has a reputation unto itself, and she has heard of it thrice already though the Braavosi ship docked only two days ago. It is only fitting that these pieces of shit are staying there. No matter, then, if she spills their blood there; apparently the floorboards have been soaked in blood for years. _Very well,_ she thinks, staring into her wine. _I shall have to play the whore. Again._

Arya waves him off. “I will not go there, do not worry yourself so, old man,” she says.

He narrows his eyes at her, and in that moment they both seem to decide that neither likes the other. “Good, because a fool like you would surely get herself killed in a hovel like that,” he sniffs, wiping down his counter with a damp rag, setting his features in an imperious, disdainful sneer. Arya’s mouth twists in irritation.

“Are these men peddling spells and magic as well? Perhaps enchantments to cure baldness? I’d think that would help you far more than the hunt for a fish-faced woman and a cow for a dog.” He recoils from her, eyebrows flattened over his beady eyes.

“Suit yourself, you little harpy, but they’s seen the likes of the three of ‘em over at The Barking Seal, mark my words, they have. I’m no fool, at least not near a fool as you,” he snaps, whipping his rag over his shoulder and retreating to his storeroom behind the counter. Arya grins with a shrug at his sensitivity; it amuses her endlessly how easily people give away their weaknesses, and though she could walk out of his tavern without so much as paying, she leaves a coin for his wine and his troubles, his insecurities too.

Snow falls freely here in the North, in Westeros where winter has at last claimed the land, and she shivers with delight to be back where she belongs; if she had her way, spring would never come. She would gladly live and die without ever seeing a flower again, to have her House words be proven right for an eternity. Besides, she saw flowers aplenty on her way to King’s Landing, and they proved to be harbingers of doom, every last one of them. Give her snow and hail, frozen rivers and clouds that blot out the sun. She has the blood of the wolf to warm her bones. _And a smith in my bed, when I return home,_ she thinks. It comes to her from out of the blue, though she sees him each night when she dreams, and the fact that she blushes like a girl makes her laugh, makes passersby stare at her in confusion.

Gendry. The boy with the helmet, a grown man from what her lupine dreams show her, streaked with soot and sweat and weariness, a shadow of a man who drifts through her sleeping hours. When she is as a wolf she cannot sleep, but keeps a night-long vigil over him as he sleeps, and she knows he sleeps on his chest, arms tucked beneath the pillow his cheek rests upon as he faces her, as she watches him, head resting on the furs that cover him. She wakes with a cramp in her fingers that could only be soothed by stretching them across his broad back, through his hair…  

Arya shivers, shakes him out of her thoughts, bringing herself back to the present. She will see him tonight in her sleep, can fall into that dream as she does every night, but now she must focus. A Stark _man_ , they say; Robb is dead, and she thought Rickon and Bran were as well, but if the rumors are to be believed, then it is most likely to be Rickon, for it would be too much to ask for Bran to be both alive and unbroken. So, she narrows it down in her head to Rickon as she asks an old woman, nearly doubled over from age, the way to The Barking Seal. She nods her thanks and turns the corner into a sudden rush of wind, and it nearly rips her hair free from the thick, rope-like braid that drapes over her left shoulder, makes her gasp in shock from the needles of cold that drive through her clothes and nip into her skin. It invigorates her nearly as much as the word spreading around White Harbor, that her youngest brother is alive, that his wolf lives as well. This rumor is nearly too good to be true. It would be better if no one was on his tail, but she will see to that before she goes to Winterfell, before she sees her sister and tells her that there are questions of loyalty to be quashed here in this harbor city. It is the least she can do for the family she has not seen in a decade. She will keep Rickon safe, and maybe one day she will even see him, as well.

 

They do not have a maester yet, but Cerwyn graciously gave Winterfell a gift of six ravens soon after they began rebuilding, and it was with one of these ravens that Sansa sent Rickon’s message, Harwin’s letter, just as her brother had asked of her, and she visits the rookery each day to see if there has been a reply. She stands, the snow blowing in from the open windows on all sides, strokes the birds with the back of a bent finger atop their heads, and it is up here, away from the cheerful chaos and the fixing of war wounds to her home that she feels the crippling weight of all that she is trying to do. Her spine is straight and her shoulders are back but on the inside of her heart she is a weary old women at 28; she strides through the halls and the yard and the town beyond the walls wearing confidence as a cloak, fortitude as a dress, yet inside she trembles, stripped bare by fear and insecurity.

Here though, with these birds wearing black, the shade she feels she should don for all of her days because of the lives and loves she mourns, she can drop the farce and simply be herself, with all her faults, all her failings, all her fears. The only person who is in on it, the only person who knows is the man who holds her as she falls asleep, who wakes in the middle of the night from her crying out in the midst of a nightmare, who kisses her fevered brow when she would claw the eyes out of any other person who would try. Sandor is the thread that holds the very fabric of her together, and if it weren’t for him, Winterfell would still be a cobwebbed tomb.  She lifts her eyes from the raven she is petting and leans forward, looking out through the window to the yard below; there is still no training yet, as there should be, for they are too busy with stone and mortar to pick up sword and shield, which is why she is surprised to see Sandor emerge from the smithy with a sword in hand. He swings it in an arc from the right and then another from the left, hefting it in his hands. Sansa smiles; even adults must have their go at playing pretend.

She sighs and sets the raven down, letting it walk off her fingers and back to its roost, and nearly screams when another comes swooping in through the northern window; she ducks and it flies directly where her head was, cawing as it lands on a perch just behind her. Heart hammering in her chest, she briefly considering throttling the damned thing for scaring her half out of her wits, but she reaches for the scroll it carries instead of wringing its neck, swears an oath when it nips at her finger. Her fingers shake from the adrenaline rushing through her thanks to the close call with the bird, but then they tremble for an altogether different reason.

Sansa flies down the spiral stairs leading from the rookery, through the empty maester’s chambers and finally down and out into the yard where Sandor is still swinging his sword. He stands in a fighting stance across from Gendry who also has a sword, and they play as boys do, shouting and grunting with exaggerated effort that Sansa is all too familiar with. Sandor barks out a laugh when Gendry’s thrust misses horribly and swats him away with a strike from the flat of his sword against the smith’s thigh, making him stagger to the side.

“You fu- my lady,” Gendry says, recovering quickly the moment he glances aside and sees her hurrying towards them, and Sandor turns his head as well, lowering his sword when he sees her, though he does not bow as Gendry does.

“Oh please, stop that nonsense,” Sansa says, waving him off as she slows to a stop before them both. “Sandor, we have word from him,” she says, resting a hand on her stomach as she catches her breath. “He has replied,” she says, holding up the letter with a little wave. Sandor reaches for it and opens it, his gray eyes scanning quickly, widening slightly, and then he nods, folding it up and handing it back to her.

“Who is it?” Gendry asks, and then he looks mortified with himself, but it makes Sansa laugh despite the magnitude of what this letter means.

“Please, don’t, Gendry. You have been too close to always act with such deference. We are all of us equals here, truly,” she says with a smile. _And I think you may be in love with my sister,_ she wants to say, but she does not want to horrify him.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Sansa, call me Sansa, please.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the letter. “So… Who is it? What does it mean?”

“Oh,” she breathes, looking down as well at the folded square of parchment. She looks up to Sandor, who has his arms crossed over his chest, sword hilt still in hand, sword pointing under his arm and behind him. He nods once, and she returns it. “It is from my half- from my- from Jon. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He rides south, and will be here in four days hence.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUUUUTTTTT Smut smutty smut smut. Sorry not sorry. :)

“Shireen.” It’s a soft echo inside her head. A hand slides across her naked stomach, fingers curling when they find her hip.

“Mm.” She smiles, eyes still closed. She was dreaming of riding Fury down the black sand beaches two thousand feet below, the frothing sea to her left, pines and stone to her right, and then Fury turned into a black wolf with green eyes, and then the world tumbled onto itself and she was on her back in a narrow valley, snow clinging to the grass all around her, and Rickon was above her, grinning with wolf’s teeth before leaning in to kiss her, before he changed into the night sky and a sweep of stars. It was a good dream, and she wants it back. She is a like a moth stuck in the web of sleep, and though his voice does stir her, she finds she cannot fully free herself. Two weeks after their arrival and she feels she is still catching up on her rest after more than two months on the road and in the marshlands, the plains and on the sea. Rickon was similar the first several days, sleeping long past midday and collapsing to bed not long after sundown, but he has since bounced back, in the most obvious of ways on late mornings such as these.

She is nearly back to sleep when there is a shift and a gust of cool air hits her chest, making her shiver before she feels the tingling rub of his scruffy chin beneath her right breast, and then his hot mouth is on her, his tongue against her nipple as he palms her left breast. The cool air and his hot touches set fire to that spider web of sleep, and her eyes open at last, staring at the stone ceiling above her. Shireen’s fingers slide into his hair, cradling his head as much as keeping it where it is, so that he does not stop. He pulls his head back only slightly with the lightest of tugs to her nipple with his teeth, another lick of his tongue, eyes flicking up to her and she looks at him with a whimper.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and he grins so wickedly it puts a throb between her legs. She tightens her grip in his hair and his eyes roll back slightly, head tipping back into her nails before he lowers his head again.

“I don’t intend to,” he murmurs against her skin, more teeth and lips and tongue as he eases his body over her thigh to nestle between them, and now both breasts are in his hands as he kisses between them, down towards and then past her navel, and then he gives her good reason to arch her back and pull his hair when he puts his mouth to her cunt, licks into her and makes her gasp, makes her say things like  _yesyesyes_ and  _Rickon, please_  and  _no, don’t stop, please, please._ Her voice is more ragged scream than whisper and the air is not so cold, anymore. Her thighs are up and his arms are wrapped around them, possessively, fingers kneading the soft flesh there, his shoulders rounding up as he lays into her with his tongue. She is a mess of movement, half sitting up to beckon him come up and slide inside her, nails on his shoulders before falling back to the pillows the next moment, hands reaching back for the wall behind the bed until she’s coming, hard, wants to buck her hips, but his hands leave the viselike grip they have on her thighs to press down against her lower belly, to keep her still and steady so he may finish the job, and she’s gone, absolutely gone, lost in something richer and more powerful than sleep, and she realizes it’s him, it’s his love.

He rises up, finally, sliding the back of his hand across his mouth before prowling up her body like a stalking animal, dragging her leg with him, hitching it over his hip as he pushes himself into her, as she helps him with her hands, and Shireen thinks she could sob it is so much bliss to sink into. Her other leg lifts and she locks her ankles around him, squeezing her thighs to bring him closer, to make him realize he is  _hers_  and it makes him groan, makes him breathless as he buries his face in the hair by her shoulder, biting her neck and kissing her throat as he thrusts into her, over and over and over again. Her nails are on his back and after a particularly rough thrust on his part she digs in and rakes sideways along his ribs and he growls on the exhale, throwing his head back, gasping  _fuck, Shireen_  before he looks back down at her, teeth gritted and eyes hot, sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow and temples. She can hardly breathe for how good he feels, and so she cups his face and pulls him down so she can kiss him with an open mouth and her tongue, and his hips do not stop moving, only move harder and faster as she wraps her arms beneath his around his back.

“I love you,” she says against his mouth, and there is some strangled whimper coming from deep within him at her words, making her smile at the same time that she pants for breath, and so she says it again and again, holding him to her, heels pressed into the flesh of his arse because she doesn’t want him ever to stop or ever to leave, and when he next says her name he sounds as if he is crying, so desperately is he clinging to the precipice, trying so valiantly to stay with her, to not let go. So she releases him with a “Come, Rickon, come for me,” and he whines like a dog before letting slip a guttural sort of sound, animalistic and raw, his entire body shuddering, and his head snaps back again as he spills his seed in her before it drops down to her shoulder, back heaving under her hands from the effort and the exertion and the love.

This is how it has been every time they make love now, tucked away in Kingshouse of Skagos, all reckless abandon and wild and  _loud_ , and as obvious as it is that Rickon finally feels free, now, free from paranoia and pursuers, from obligation and duty, she is equally as unfettered. The moment they landed on the stone dock of Magnar’s, she could almost feel the snapping of ties to the mainland, to the war, the struggle, the identity as fleeing princess. She is simply a woman who lives on an island, now, a woman who shares her bed and her heart with a man, and that is all. Now their lives can begin again, and they begin them nearly every day in such an attack of the senses, as if every other time they’ve been together were in plain silk, muted colors where now, on this rock of gray and white and black and green, everything is saturated and textured like a jewel-toned tapestry. This is living.

Her legs unwind at last and drop down to the mattress on either side of him, stretching towards the foot of the bed as she arches her back, as if to wring out every last ebb of pleasure, send it coursing through her limbs, and he follows suit, lengthening his long body out above her, propping himself back up onto his elbows as he lifts his head. Now he looks the sleepy one, eyelids heavy and smile languid from their tryst, and he sighs deeply while he leans on one elbow to lift a hand to her face, drag the damp hair from her brow.

“I love you too,” he says, and she smiles like a cat with cream, performing a similar favor to him, pushing his sweaty hair off the nape of his neck.

“I can tell,” she says, and he gusts a spent, breathless laugh before kissing her.

“Good,” he says, kissing her again before easing off her and onto his back, an arm thrown over his head. He turns to look at her. “That’s all I want.” She turns on her side and finds his chest for her pillow, and he combs his fingers idly through her hair.

“What will we do today?” She trails a fingertip across his chest, tracing the blue-green whorls, tapping along the dots that ride the crests of spirals that are tattooed into his skin.

“Whatever we want,” he says, turning his head to kiss her forehead. “Gods know we’ve already started it off that way.”

“I want to learn how to hunt,” she says, glancing up to see his reaction, which is a curling grin aimed to the ceiling. “I want you to teach me.”

“The doe becomes the wolf, aye?”

“Aye,” she says in perfect mimicry of him and the northern way he shapes his words, posting herself up on an elbow to kiss him, and he catches her with a hand at the back of her head, holding her close, kissing her with relish, as if he’s never tasted honey before, never been loved before.

 

They spend the rest of the morning bathing together in the largest tub Rickon has ever before seen, and so are able to bathe together, Shireen on his lap, slippery and wet as a mermaid as he washes her back, and then he has the immense pleasure of sitting between her legs, back against her breasts, head back on her shoulder as she washes him, and there they linger, talking and laughing until the water runs lukewarm and even he feels the chill, though they bathe before the stoked-high fire.

“A raven came from Winterfell,” Osha tells them as they enter the hall arm in arm; they are too late for the morning meal but are in time to break their fast as everyone else eats their midday meal, and Rickon is happy to see that Shireen no longer blushes when Tor grins and laughs at their tardiness, when members of the small household snigger and look knowingly to them. So instead of ducking her head as they enter, Shireen looks to Osha and then to Rickon with unconcealed interest.

“Impressive to find a raven that can make its way to Skagos,” he says with a chuckle, leading Shireen to her seat, kissing her greyscale before releasing her to sit, and stands with hand outstretched to receive the message as Osha hands it to him over the table. They do not sit all on one side as they do in other great halls, but sit around it as they would in a tavern or country house, and so she and Rickon sit side by side, backs to the rest of the hall, across from Tor and Osha, though he would never present his back to an open room back on the mainland. Rickon unrolls the parchment and knits his brow in concentration as he reads. He can feel Osha watching him, and though he’s not a proud man, he cannot keep the smile from the corner of his mouth as he reads.

“My sister Sansa writes to tell me that there were sc- scouts, scouts in the North, caught by men loyal to Cer… Shireen, what in hells?” He holds the missive out to her and she leans in, glancing at it before straightening, thanking a servant who puts a bowl of mutton stew before her.

“Cerwyn,” she says lightly, and he nods, knowing the name, trying to memorize how it looks to be spelled out.

“To Cerwyn,” he says, reading off the parchment again. “They were looking for a woman with… Well, with something on her face,” he says with a sneer, angry that people think  _that_  is the only remarkable thing about her, “and a Stark man with a wolf. They claim there are more men, one in Dorne, two in Essos and another two in White Harbor.” He looks to Shireen and she’s already there, meeting him with her gaze.

“Rickon killed two on the ship, but…” she trails off.

“That’s a good man,” Osha says proudly with a nod, leaning over her bowl as she eats a spoonful of food.

“Aye, but I don’t think those men were scouts. They were sailors, through and through. They’re dead sailors now, but if they heard news of us then others will. I only hope they were the only ones who knew who we  _truly_  were, and I paid the captain a handsome sum to swear we were headed to Karhold, should anyone ask.”

 “It says more, Rickon, just there,” she points, and he looks at her, impressed that she read that quickly in just a glance over to the words. He looks down, focuses again, and reads. There is mention of Arya’s wolf, and more after that, but he keeps the latter to himself, and instead focuses on the lighter news.

“Seven hells. This is incredible. Arya’s wolf Nymeria,” he says, knowing that wolf’s name all too well to stumble over its spelling, “She’s in Winterfell. That  _has_  to mean Arya’s still alive,” he says with a grin, looking up to Shireen, to Osha and Tor. They give him kind looks, sweet from Shireen and sympathetic from the Skagosi and his foster mother, and it makes him frown. “The wolf found her way home. I can’t see Shaggydog doing that if I were dead. He’d go absolutely feral. We’re the only things keeping our wolves as domesticated as they are,” he says firmly, and Tor chuckles, not unkindly.

“If you can call that wolf of yours domesticated,” and Rickon rolls his eyes good naturedly.

“Whatever you may think, or not think, I’m going with my gut, and I think my sister is alive. If any Stark could survive it would be her, besides. You’ll not convince me otherwise,” he says, tossing the letter down on the table, drinking from his mulled wine before attacking his stew with ravenous flair.

“Wolf business aside, the entire island pays fealty to me,” Tor begins, and Rickon raises his eyebrows. “Ultimately to Winterfell of course,” he says hastily, and Rickon nods. “But on Skagos, to me,” Tor finishes. “If anyone comes for you, I will call their banners and we will fight. It is impossible to take this island. Nobody wants it, and even if they did you know how hard it is to even get here. I’m surprised that ship wasn't churned to pieces before it even docked. I'm glad it didn't, fuck, woman," he exclaims under the pressure of Osha's murderous look.

“If the Targaryen scouts are worth their weight, they’ll come seek me out in person,” Shireen says, a crackle of heat in her voice. “And then we will kill them.” Tor laughs and Rickon grins to Osha, who is looking at her with amusement in her eyes, curiosity too.  _She’s got more nip to her than you know, Osha,_  he thinks.

“Oh, I like her, Rickon,” she says, and Shireen laughs.

“Once I’m able to actually hit a man, let alone a rabbit or deer,  _then_  you’ll like me,” she says, voice layered with sweetness that contrasts with the pepper of her talk. Tor appraises her, as do the guards standing by the table, and Rickon’s grin fades when he catches one’s eye. He shovels food in his mouth and drops his spoon, picks up his knife beside his bowl and stares at it, turning it this way and that before lifting his eyes back to the guard. Carrick has a glint in his eye as he flicks his eyes up and down over Shireen but when he catches Rickon’s glare he looks away quick enough, and Rickon hefts the knife, hands it to Shireen.

“We could teach you how to throw one of these as well, love,” he gruffs after swallowing his mouthful of food, eyes sliding off Carrick like a poisoned dart, and he gives Shireen a dark smile. “Kill a man from across the room if need be,” and his point gets across when later they leave the hall, passing the guard, who swallows visibly and keeps his eyes rooted to the floor under Rickon’s feet.

The yard is buffered on all sides by either turrets, watchtowers or the keep, and by high shards of cliff in between, so it is a relatively calm afternoon as Rickon keeps his word and shows her, each with their own dagger, how to throw a knife.

“Ours are handle-heavy, so you will throw it by the blade. Here, like this,” he says, pinching the blade between thumb and three fingers.

“But can I hunt with this? Surely this can’t take down a deer,” she scoffs as he shows her how to grip it. He lowers his voice.

“You can hunt smaller game, like hares, even fish in the shallows if you become that good. Even men, if you need to,” he says, and she looks up to him, startled. “Tor may be a jovial oaf of a man, and Osha loves me and you, once she gets to know you, but do not think that this is an isle of friendly drunk men who sup and drink and roar with laughter. Tor killed the last man who was lord of Kingshouse. If ever he falters, someone from Stane or Crowl will come for his head, maybe even one of his smallfolk if they get riled enough. You must always be prepared. Now come, I have a feeling you with your nimble hands will pick up on this quickly.”

Shireen looks up at him, her storm-blue eyes unreadable as she listens, but then she sets her jaw and nods once, firm and decisive, and for the rest of the afternoon she proves Rickon right, and by the time their fingers are well and truly numb from the cold, she gets the point into the wood of the stable wall every single time.

 

“I told you long ago on the kingsroad,” he says, laughing at the mess he’s made, and to be true Shireen is laughing as well. It is morning, several days after she learned to throw her knife, and since then they have worked on hunting with arrows, and yesterday she brought home her first meal for them, though it was only two rabbits and had to be added to a stew to stretch it out between them all. She is eager to try it again and so they are heading down the long, winding turret stairs to hunt amongst the pine instead of on the high rocky hills and in the deep, evergreen-choked glens.  “I am no good at tying bows, and that does not bode well for braids, either.”

He is trying with a most valiant effort to help her tame her hair; the winds here, even while simply crossing the yard, render her hair a wild bird’s nest of tangles, and Shireen has asked him to try and braid it in the style that Osha wears. He has simply made it more untamable, though he stands behind her with two combs and several cords of leather to tie it back. He loves her hair, she is well aware of this, but he simply does not understand a woman’s hair, and she tells him as much. Rickon pulls her up from where she sits between him and the fire, and when Shireen turns, shaking her head with a grin at him, patting the braids that are essentially knots on her hair, he laughs again to see the outcome of his attempt.

“As long as I understand the woman, I’ll let the hair be a mystery to me. Go on, Osha will treat this finery with far more delicacy that I could ever manage.” He kisses her, still chuckling to himself as he finishes his dress, turning away from her to pick up a shirt and pull it over his head. She watches him, smug to see the red lines across his back that her nails have put there to mingle and clash with the blue and green ink. She marks him thusly nearly every day, as surely as he brands her with his mouth and his tongue, and he wears them with pride, has strode shirtless down halls in front of the household. Shireen sighs richly and pulls tight the laces that run down the front of her bodice; she is in her midnight not-a-dress, requiring every layer she can find to keep adequately warm on their excursions, though she has seen to getting more wool dresses and breeches made, and Rickon’s foster mother has leant her things as well. She pulls on two cloaks and laces up her boots, heading out of their chambers.

“You’ll find me in the yard with Tor,” Rickon calls out after her. “I have need to hit things with my sword, so I might as well knock him around.” The two of them slash at each other nearly every day now that they are well enough rested and can leave their bed at a decent hour, and he frequently sits with Tor as he treats with the other heads of Houses, and she and Osha have wandered in on the two of them poring over accounts together, Rickon leaning over the shoulder of the grizzled older man, squinting as he makes sense of the figures and numbers.

“He has wanted sons his entire life, at least since I’ve known him,” Osha had murmured.

“Did you not try?” Shireen had asked her, and Osha had only grinned, dark as a cat.

“Tried as often as he wanted, we did. Some things aren’t meant to be.”

It unsettled Shireen somewhat, still does since she knows now that slaying lords is the way to inherit castles and Houses, but she must content herself with Rickon’s strength and youth, vigor and vigilance.

“Osha?” she calls, knocking on the door of the chambers she shares with Tor, stepping back hastily when it is he who opens the door and not the woman in question.

“Well, if it isn’t Rickon’s little mare,” he rumbles. “I assume you are not here to warm my bed,” he says, appraising her, indeed, as he would a horse.  She narrows her eyes, tilting her face to the right slightly, presenting him with a better view of her greyscale, knowing it set him ill at ease.

“I am here to see if Osha can right the wrongs Rickon has done to his  _little mare’s_  mane,” she says with a bite to her words, and there is the peeling laughter of a woman that rings out behind Tor’s hulking frame, and he gives Shireen’s left cheek a glare and mutters to himself, saying  _my lady_  as he brushes past her, as if he means it, as if he even knows what those words mean. She walks down the short little hall into the main room of their quarters, seeing that it is similar to hers and Rickon’s. There are thick tapestries hanging on every wall, rich oranges and red depicting battles, greens and blues showing ships at sea battling monsters from the deep. There are several pieces of wooden furniture, dark and twisted as driftwood, a large table in the center of the room, covered not with papers and books as her father’s had been, but various pieces of weaponry and a small mountain of clothing . Two high backed wooden chairs with a rickety table between them form a small semi-circle in front of the fire, and there Osha sits, hunched over in one of the chairs, a cushion beneath her and a cushion behind her back, knotting a thread on a nondescript article of clothing before biting it with her teeth. She glances up to Shireen, and even with the thread in her teeth she grins, and Shireen huffs a sigh and rolls her eyes, an exasperated, world-weary sort of smile on her face.

 “Good for you, girl, standing up to him with your words. Gods know the stubborn shits on this island listen to nothing else. Try a sweet word and you’ll find yourself forced onto your back before you know it,” Osha says, shaking out what happens to be a dress of dark, dark green wool. There is no embroidery on it, no threads of different color to decorate the edges, but it is a solid piece, thick and warm looking, and cut to fit well. “There, a dress for you, hemmed and all. It’s not much,” she says, changing the topic as if she were not just warning on how to avoid rape. “But it’s the best old Osha can do. I’ve no lady-like skills, I’m afraid, but any wildling can sew a dress, just as well as she can- fucking hells, girl, what did you do to your  _hair_?” And she’s laughing harder than even Rickon did, falling back into her chair, head thumping against it from the power of her laughter. Shireen pats her hair self-consciously, but then she’s chuckling as well as the other woman stands and beckons to sit at a low backed chair tucked under the large, rough-hewn desk beneath a narrow window overlooking the yard.

Shireen glances down to the oddly shaped yard and sure enough she sees Tor stride out, sword already raised and ready to block the left-handed strike as Rickon rushes him, and even from this high up, through the thick, knobby glass she can hear the ringing of their swords. It reminds her of the sounds of encampment, and she sends her thoughts and a prayer south to her father and Davos before sitting down at the little desk. There are no books but needles and thread, a box with a lid lined in opalescent seashell and dark green scraps of wool. Osha’s fingers tug lightly, quickly on the knots in her hair, and Shireen traces the edge of the box. She notices how long her nails have grown, and she bites her lip, thinking of Rickon’s back, and vows to trim them later.

“Open it, if you’d like, and I can put something more than just leather cord and bindings in your hair.” Shireen does as she is asked and smiles faintly to see the small, spiraled shells that belonged to the tiniest creatures of the sea, chips of dark blue mussel shells, pink and pale blue on the other side, little white shells that look like ladies’ fans, each and every one carefully bored through with a small hole. “I can’t hardly think of how pretty shells would look, standing out like stars in the black of your hair,” she says, using her fingers in the place of combs, surprisingly gentle considering the toughness of this woman’s language and demeanor. Shireen, for the first time in a long, long time, feels like she is the presence of a mother figure, one who actually  _likes_  her, and unbidden, tears spring to her eyes and she has to bite down on a sob. Her mother has been dead several years and it is a painful thing to realize she has not much missed her, has not much missed the absence of motherhood that was there even when Queen Selyse was alive.

Osha’s hands still and she bends over Shireen’s shoulder, face close to the greyscale as she peers at Shireen. “Why, what in hells is the matter? If you don’t want the bloody shells, don’t wear them,” she huffs, and Shireen laughs through her tears, shaking her head.

“It’s not that,” she says, wiping her face with the backs of her hands. “It’s not that at all, I just- I’m glad to know you, that’s all.” Osha narrows her eyes, and Shireen knows she can tell there’s more, but the older woman doesn’t push or pry. “If- if it’s all right, I think I  _would_  like to have some of these, if that’s all right. Will they break if I sleep in them?”

“You let that idiot husband of yours take them out for you and come to me tomorrow; I’ll do it until you get the trick of it, and then you can do for yourself. And if they break, no matter; we are surrounded by the sea, and she leaves her wares for us every day and night.”

Shireen smiles, thinking of picking shells from the black sands on the beaches below them the way a maid or child picks flowers from a meadow, and eventually her tears subside; she turns a mussel shell over and over in her hands as Osha, with even gentler pressure than before, slowly takes the tangles out and begins work on a braid that pulls Shireen’s hair from her temple to the back of her head, an intricate, meandering thing that keeps the hair from her eyes, that will secure it down against the wind’s trickery. “He’s not, um, I mean to say, Rickon’s not actually my husband,” she says, an untimely hiccup, left over from crying, making her sound like a weak-voiced, watery-eyed drunk.

“Ooh, now that’s a juicy morsel for me to chew on,” Osha says after humming with surprise. “Now why would you two lie to the likes of us about a thing as that; to maintain modesty, _here_ of all places?”

“Rickon wanted, well, first we had to act as such to keep suspicion at bay, staying in an inn together, though I don’t know how good a job that was, with Shaggydog snarling this way and that,” Shireen says with a chuckle. “And then he said he wanted people here to know that I’m- well,” she says, ducking her head, irritated that she blushes now, after everything, like some girl. She reminds herself that Osha has likely seen and heard far more wild things than anything Shrieen could ever tell her, even of what went on in that inn. “He wanted it to be known that I am his, that he’s mine. That none other can have me,” and she’s whispering, smiling like a fool; she clears her throat again as if she could shake out the sudden shyness that has taken the strength of her voice.

Osha chuckles. “A blind man could see you belong to each other, there was no need to lie and claim you were his wife, that he was your lord husband.” She laughs again, taking two shells from the box. When next she speaks her voice is muffled, and Shireen knows she holds a shell in her mouth as she weaves in the first. “Perhaps Rickon simply wanted to play at marriage with you. Girls like their dolls and boys like their swords, but men do enjoy wives, though _some_ would like us not to know it.”

“Are you wed to Tor?” Shireen asks, and it is impossible to keep the surprise from her voice. “Truly?”

Osha laughs, weaving the second shell through the braid. “Aye, I am, though half the time I wonder if I made a fool out of myself to do so.” She gathers up more of Shireen’s hair, higher up on her head, and goes to work. “I did it after Rickon left; his Stark name gave me added protection and respect, but when he left, I did not feel up to holding onto it with my own nameless claim. Tor’s an easy man to convince and an easier man to make happy so long as my legs fall open often enough. I might even love him after enough wine,” she says with another laugh.

“But, but if you are wed, why are there no children?”

“Well,” Osha says, pausing her grooming to lean over Shireen’s shoulder, glancing down in the yard where the two men hammer away on one another. They both can hear Tor bellow a shout and then the great  _clang_  of metal on metal, and then a victorious battle cry from Rickon. “I think I have already given him one, don’t you?” Her fingers resume their activity once she straightens, and Shireen smiles to hear such loyalty.

“But he’s, Rickon I mean, he’s not your blood, yet you love him so?”

Osha sighs, but her words are shaped with a smile. “I never birthed no babe, never held one to my breast, but I have felt a child’s need, the need for love and the need to give it. I’ve returned it and held it high and tight in my heart. He was my boy for three years, and though he’s not my blood, there’s no taking them from me, those years. He’s mine as good as any’s, now that his parents are dead. I’d leave him with more than the chaos they did, those years ago. I’ll do whatever it is I can.” Shireen smiles the entire time she speaks, and her heart aches to hear such love for a man for whom she cares so much.

“You love him very much,” she says,

“As do you, in a different way. A wifely way, I’d wager,” Osha says, her voice jaunty.

“Yes,” Shireen whispers, shy again.

“Well, if you want to be a wife to him for true, there’s nothing wrong with asking.”

“Did _you_ ask _Tor_?” Shireen asks in disbelief.

“Ask him? No. I _told_ him.” And then both women are laughing.

When Osha is finally done, she stands back and bids Shireen to stand, to see her handiwork in a small mirror, and it takes her breath away to see her hair so bedecked. She looks wild, and the older woman was right to suggest the white shells, for they stand out like jewels against the dark of her hair. When she moves her head, there is the slightest chinkling sound of the shells striking against one another, and it makes her laugh.

“A right queen of Skagos, you look, if I do say so myself.” and Shireen starts, lowering the little mirror to look curiously at Osha.

“Rickon teased me, when we first met, that I’d be queen of Skagos with shells and, what was it, oh! And bone in my hair,” she says, looking back into the mirror.

“Bone,” Osha scoffs, “I’d never dress you up like some savage whore from House Crowl. Now go on, he will eat you up, he will,” she says, arms folded across her chest as she regards Shireen with pride. They share a knowing grin and Shireen is off, patting her hair in a sort of dazed wonder, on her way to the yard to watch Rickon strut and puff his chest as he spars, to wonder what it is like to ask for someone’s hand as she sits and admires him, to wonder what he will do when she asks it of him, to wonder what he will say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Gendry next chapter! And we're meeting Jon. Eeeeeee


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've got Gendry, Arya and Sansa POVs today. Hope y'all enjoy! I feel like there's a lot going on.

Jon Snow arrives four days after Sansa received the raven, just as he said he would, and when the Lord Commander is sighted not far outside their walls, Gendry is sitting, forearms on his thighs, on a bench in the snow covered yard with a cup of wine, his jerkin half unlaced and tunic sweaty beneath it as he enjoys his midday meal. Snow falls lazily, and he is starting to feel relief from the chill now, the longer he stays up north, and indeed is enjoying the slap of cold against his overheated skin; it makes eating and drinking easier, to be out of the suffocating heat of his forge. The door is more often open now than closed, to let some of the cold come in a battle with the warmth.

The call of  _Riders!_ goes up, the sound of a  _whoop_  being carried to them by a watchman on duty cupping his hands around his mouth as he shouts; they have no horn yet, no regulated system, nothing of sophistication, but this works well enough for now. Sansa emerges from the Keep in a simple gown that is such a pale gray she nearly glitters amongst the mud-mixed snow of the yard, and while Gendry is not a man of silks and brocades, he looks with near sorrow to the hem of her skirts, which will surely be dirtied out here. She is a lovely lady, regal as ever, but she is pretty to him as a distant star, is nothing graspable, not like the temper, flesh and blood of her sister, and while he sees red hair and blue eyes, he looks past them, sees with his mind's eye chestnut and nutmeg and gray eyes like forged steel, the crackle of fire behind them.

Gendry swallows his bread and chases it with the last slugs of wine in his cup, stuffs the remaining hunk of cold chicken in his mouth before standing, turning his back on his lady and her newly appointed staff to re-lace his jerkin, to smooth his shirt and wipe the chilling sheen of sweat from his brow; he does not want to shame her, to make the reborn Winterfell look more lawless than it really is, though they are trying valiantly to restore order. He refuses to look as baseborn as he truly is, either, even to the forgotten men of the Night’s Watch.

Jon brings with him yet another direwolf, the third Gendry has seen in his life, all white with red eyes, padding silently beside his master's roan gelding, as well as six men, all in black as they are wont to do, though none are quite as somber, stoic, or reticent as Jon Snow himself, that much is plain even in the three minutes Gendry has observed them all.  But a man whose last name is Waters understands why a man named Snow may carry a bit more pain than other men. The six of them are mostly of an age as their Commander, though there are one or two men who look well into their fifties. One of the younger is hugely fat, and with a chuckle Gendry idly wonders at the strength of his horse’s back before the large man catches his eye and gives him a genuinely warm if not somewhat sheepish smile; Gendry nods to him and then lowers his eyes, feeling rightly chastened for thinking so cruelly about a man he has yet to know.

Sandor stands beside Sansa as always, and Podrick is on her left, spine straight and chin up, taking his role as steward very seriously. Harwin is there as well, all business though Gendry highly doubts Sansa will ever leave her home again despite naming the man her castellan. The four of them present a united force of the fledgling household, this new age for Winterfell; behind them stand the rest of the brotherhood and the townsfolk who have offered their services to the Starks, and Gendry makes haste to join them, jogging to go stand beside Brienne, who arches a pale blonde eyebrow at him at his tardiness. Gendry gives her a grin and shrugs.

“I was hungry,” he whispers, and she snorts a laugh in response, rolling her eyes.

“Lord Commander,” Sansa says, and Gendry can see her profile as she smiles, stepping forward to receive their guests when they all of them dismount, though only Jon approaches her, while the rest of them line up behind him. His wolf approaches Sansa with a tenderness that seems to be reserved for Starks, and she sinks her fingers into the white fur, skates them along the sharp edges of his ears before the wolf circles back around Jon. He wears sorrow as comfortably as he wears black, and his dark eyes look mournful even from this distance; it is something Gendry recognizes because he carries it with him as well, and he feels a sort of kindred spirit with this serious younger man.

“Please, Sansa, none of that. I’m still the same old Jon. I’m still your- well,” he laughs, and Sansa does too, though it is a strange, stilted thing. But they embrace with true care, judging by how the hug lingers, and for those moments the household and the men of the Night’s Watch stand with their heads bowed to give them privacy, hands collectively clasped behind backs as if they all pray for the Stark family, for yet another reunion, yet another ghost come back to life. They break apart and smile at each other again, and Jon takes Sansa by the arm as he introduces her to his men; the big man is Samwell Tarly, and upon his introduction, Gendry can both feel and see Brienne flinch. He glances to her, looks down when her hands move, unclasping and he sees that Jay, on her right, has slipped his remaining hand into hers. Brienne lifts her chin, once more the picture of unmoving strength, and beneath it Gendry sees Jay flick a challenging sort of look his way, as if to say  _Go on and say something, try me._

This distracts Gendry throughout the rest of the introductions, and when at last he returns his attention to the newcomers, he has missed the names of the rest of the Night’s Watch, as they are all now being introduced to Winterfell’s men and women, or at least the main members of her household. Sansa rests her hand fondly, familiarly, on Sandor’s broad chest when introducing him, and while Gendry manages to keep his laughter in, Lem has a far harder time when they see Jon’s eyes widen as he regards Clegane, though they shake hands and nod their introductions as if it never happened. Harwin twists in his spot and shoves Lem on the shoulder, and now it looks as if Winterfell is run by a bunch of unruly children. Gendry, Brienne and Jay look in unison at Lem to glare daggers at him, and soon enough his sniggers die down. There is restlessness in the crowd now, and Gendry thinks it is back to business as usual, takes a step towards his forge and is surprised, then, when Sansa stays him with a hand on his arm and introduces him to Jon.

“This is Gendry Waters, our smith,” she smiles. Jon nods with a smile and Gendry returns both gestures. He shakes the Lord Commander’s hand and the grip is firm and sincere, upfront and honest, all things that he can appreciate. “There’s more, Jon; he knew Arya. They spent quite a bit of time together before she disappeared.”

“Arya,” Jon says, a sad smile on his mouth. “I have always hoped I would see her again, but it’s been so long. I hope she left you well, Gendry.” He nods, is about to speak.

“There is reason yet to hope,” Sansa says with a smile, glancing to Gendry before looking back to the Commander. “Her wolf has come home to us, though the means by which were less than favorable. Nymeria is here,” she says, and lifts her voice to call for the wolf, who comes soon enough. Jon is clearly floored, stepping back when he sees the huge gray wolf materialize from seemingly nowhere. Jon’s own wolf growls and whines and the two play as pups would, gamboling about the yard, men and women hastily dodging out of their way when they come near, snuffling with snapping jaws and high pitched yips.

“You think Nymeria’s presence here is a sign that Arya is here too?” Jon smiles wistfully. “Is she skulking around the castle like Bran did all those years ago?”

“No,” Sansa says, somewhat testily to be so teased. “But you tell me how Ghost would fare without you, if he would run to your childhood home to live peacefully amongst people if you were gone. Nymeria is as happy here as if Arya were here; she even sleeps in Arya’s rooms with- well, Gendry sleeps there, but ever since she’s come back to us she has stayed there, regardless of Gendry’s presence.”

Now Jon Snow looks thoroughly amused and none of it with that tinge of sadness that seems to color the edges of every expression, shape the sound of every word. “She sleeps with you in your bed? Nymeria does?”

“Aye,” Gendry says slowly, unsure of what the jape is, here. He wonders if Snow laughs at Gendry using Arya’s chambers when he knew her before, and it makes his cheeks feel hot. But Jon merely nods, smiling with something close to mischief there in his eyes, says  _Ah,_  and then takes his leave of Gendry politely, walking inside with Sansa, Sandor and Harwin, who claps a hand on the Commander’s shoulder as they disappear into the Keep.

It is not until later that evening when they eat, Jon sitting beside Sansa, Gendry invited to sit alongside them as he is an old friend of Arya’s, that he is offered insight into Jon’s mischievous grin. He is granted the honor of sitting beside Jon, understands why after they are served a dinner of peppery venison and boiled greens, heaps of crispy-skinned small potatoes and spiced wine. Looking down at the people who now call Winterfell their home, mingling with the Night’s Watch who help to flesh out the tables, gives Gendry a warming sort of pride, one he has not felt since he first joined the brotherhood and was knighted. He feels like no knight, anymore, but it is an added layer to him, just as is being at home, here.  Almost at peace. Almost, if it weren’t for her absence. Jon rouses him from his musing.

“I have never before sat so high up in this hall before,” he says lightly, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I think it’s nice for bastards to sit high and lofty on the dais, don’t you?”

Gendry wants to laugh as he nods, but then he sees his lady bow her head, fingers a tangle in her lap. Her lip is between her teeth, and Sandor watches her keenly, sparing a fleeting, pointed glance to the Lord Commander that is hardly unreadable. The firelight flickers against his scars and where it once was terrible to behold, Gendry finds more to fear in his eyes when his lady feels distress than in the knots and snarl of burned skin.

“Oh Sansa,” Jon says softly, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “It was not your word that bade me to sit below with the others, it was the order of things. That was just the way it was. And, believe me, it is truly no matter now. Forgive a man his poor choice of jest,” he says, and it is her turn for a sad smile when she lifts her eyes to his, unshed tears sparkling in the candelight before they disappear of their own accord; tender she may  _look_ , but Gendry has been with her for months, and knows the grit of her, the  _Stark_  of her.

“You know what I mean, Jon, you never should have been down there. So much has happened. It has been so long, but the things that have happened to us all are too big even for the number of years between that time and this one.”

“Aye, to be true. We have reunions to be grateful for,” says the man wearing black head to toe, words belying his own heavy eyes and downturned mouth. “We have Nymeria here, and a rather large southern man on your arm.” Sansa laughs, and Jon glances sidelong to Gendry. “And look, a smith in Arya’s bed with a wolf to warm it for him,” he quips with a smirk, and now Gendry is embarrassed.

“If you're upset that I sleep in your sister’s chamber…”

Jon shakes his head, cutting off a chunk of meat and eating it and setting his fork down before he leans forward with his elbows on the table, the napkin clasped in both of his hands. He presses it to his mouth before he swallows and speaks. “You heard we are brother and sisters?” He turns his face towards Gendry, tips his head to rest his temple against his hands. There is a curious look in his dark eyes, and in that moment, sitting so close to this man, he sees how much of a Stark he looks, how similar his features are to Arya's.

“I heard so from Arya herself. She missed you much, talked of you the most during our time together,” Gendry says, and then there is a faraway look in Jon’s eyes, suggesting that he too missed her, misses her to this day.  _Another thing we bastards have in common,_  he thinks. Arya was always one for liking the unconventional; that coupled with his sadness and his bastard name makes Gendry feel even more of a connection with Jon.

But he returns to the moment, righting his head to chuckle, tosses his napkin in his lap and picks up his cup of wine. Jon drinks deeply, eyes closing a minute, and Gendry waits in silence, lifts his own drink to follow suit. “Arya will always be like a sister to me, no matter what happens,” Jon muses, half to himself, before chuckling and shaking his head. Gendry wants to ask him what this means, but Jon speaks over him. “It is true, somewhat, what Sansa says about Nymeria being alive, how that is a good sign when it comes to Arya. The connection we feel with our wolves is a deep one, goes farther than we realized for a long, long while. Until the dreams,” Jon says, cryptically.

“Dreams?” Gendry asks. He glances to Sansa but she is ensconced in conversation with Sandor, firelight glinting copper on her hair, black as a crow’s wing on Sandor’s as they bend their heads together.

“Dreams,” Jon affirms. “They- we- hmm. I have dreams where I am the wolf. Not any wolf, but  _the_ wolf, my wolf, Ghost himself,” he says, gesturing towards the outer wall on the other side of the hall, where both Nymeria and Ghost loped, right out of the gate, to howl and race and do other wolfish things that make the hair stand up on Gendry’s neck to think of it. “I know not how it comes to be, but it is true. I see things as the wolf, and can confirm them after I wake, and am myself once more. There is just a connection there. I was injured, long ago, near death, and I slipped into Ghost, if that makes sense, as if it was a month long dream. I saw through his eyes, I heard through his ears, ate with his mouth and howled with his voice.”

Chills sweep down Gendry’s arms and thighs, down into his boots at Jon’s words, and he imagines running on four legs beneath a wild-eyed moon, snow in his fur, blood on his jaws, and he shivers so violently that Jon pauses, looking at him with interest. He smiles faintly to him, and Gendry wonders how much wolf is in him still, if the wolf ever visits the man.  _Or the woman,_  he thinks.

“So,” Jon shrugs, reaching for the flagon of wine to refill his glass, offering some to Gendry, who accepts. “If Arya has died, there is a chance she is with Nymeria; if she is alive, there is a good chance she is with  _you_ , in your bed, while you sleep,” he says lightly, tipping his head back as he drinks his wine. Gendry opens his mouth to speak but finds he cannot, for all manner of words, any thought of what to say, have left him utterly.

Dinner ends soon after, and though it is far past late, Sansa would speak with Jon in her solar, and he, the man named Sam Tarly, and Sandor follow the lady of Winterfell from the Hall and to the Keep, though just before they leave there is a great snarl and howl at the door leading to the yard, and when Ned opens it the white wolf trots in, happy as you please, clearly discontent to put much more space between his man and himself.

Gendry shrugs back into fur and cloak and fills his cup to the brim for the warmth and the boldness it offers and steps outside into the cold night. The clouds and snow have left for the time being, and there is enough moon and starlight to set the yard aglow, the white of the snow turning the ugly brown of mud to a more ethereal, mysterious black, and Gendry is almost able to forget the day lit version of the place, and thanks to the wine he pretends he is on the surface of a star instead, or perhaps the moon herself, high and isolated and eternally alone.

He heads for the bench where he ate his midday meal, sweeps with his bare hand the snow that has accumulated there in the meantime and sits, sucking down a large swallow of wine to fortify himself as he thinks of eerie wolf dreams, mulls over the fact that Jon has admitted he is a warg, something that would have scared Gendry years ago, before Others and dragons and bloodshed and betrayals. Now it just another mystery, something else to haunt and lurk and stay in the shadows, in the periphery of living, though he pulls it forward now to inspect and ponder.

As if beckoned by his very train of thought, Nymeria emerges from somewhere near the east gate, and Gendry wonders if the gate is still open, if she opened it herself or leaped clear over the wall, or if she has been here in the yard with him the entire time.

“Nymeria,” he calls in a soft voice, though the silence out here makes it sound loud and gruff, as unpolished as unworked steel, rough round the edges as he himself. But she comes to him, ears pricked like gray daggers against the night air, and sits not two feet away from him, eyes at a level with his, big man as he is, big wolf as she is. “Hey, she-wolf,” he says, holding his hand out towards her. She lowers her great head, hot breath a huff on his fingers, and lifts her head again to regard him with amber eyes, eyes the color of gemstones. Gendry’s heart sets to pounding, and he is sure the wolf can hear the quickening of it when she cocks her head. He feels scared and not a little foolish, but he drinks his wine, nearly drains the rest of it, and licks his lips before clearing his throat. “Arya?” He whispers.

There is a flicker, like a flash of silk, in the wolf’s eyes, and amber blanches to gray for a handful of moments. A ragged breath shakes free from his lungs, a cloud of white that suspends and dissipates between them, as he stares at the wolf, as he stares at  _her_ , for he knows those eyes, would know them anywhere, and when the cup slips from his hand, falling to the icy ground beside his boot he curses, glances down at the splat of red that looks black, tonight. When he looks up, Nymeria is still there, but it is amber eyes that regard him, and he feels the sting of tears in his eyes, a sting he has not felt since he was a boy.

 

“I know where the heart is,” she whispers, aiming for it with her blade through the envoy’s back. Her aim has never been truer, her purpose never more clear. One knee rests on the floor beside him, the other against his spine in the center of his lower back. She had spun him around and kicked him to the greasy floorboards when he entered the room he shared with the other scout who already lay dead on the floor, black eyes bulged in death as they stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. There had been that moment of shock on his sneering, sallow face, the face she had come to recognize easily after following them for the past two days, before Arya leapt from behind the thrown open door, kicking it shut before pouncing with ease on her prey, knocking him down and pinning him there with first her knee and last her knife.

The other man she drowned in the dirty wash water in a stained and chipped porcelain basin on the dresser after masquerading as a whore who was plenty willing to spread her legs for two groats.  _At least he finally had his face washed,_  she thinks as she stands up, panting only slightly from the exertion.  _Though this one goes to the seven hells with a dirty face,_  she thinks, gazing down at her most recent handiwork _._  The room feels and smells and tastes as it looks, and Arya is eager to leave, and though she’ll not risk it here in the center of the city, she eagerly awaits a piping hot bath.

She swishes the knife in the basin of water before wiping it dry on the drowned man’s britches, and after assuring herself that her skirts, stained as they are with grease and wine as befitting a whore of The Lazy Eel, are still free from blood, she takes a moment to steady her breathing. She drags the bodies behind the bed, between it and the far wall, hiding them from view, and quickly fleeces them of their coin.  _They’ve been boasting about how much they have to pay,_  she thinks dryly, finding only a fraction of what word on the street has been suggesting. With a glance she catches sight of her reflection in a dingy mirror, recognizing the wild thrill in her eyes that is there every time she kills someone, and in the curl of her mouth. She bites her lip to rid herself of that bloodthirsty smirk.  _I know where the heart is,_  she thinks,  _but what of mine? What will mine be like, feel like, when I return home?_

This is no time to ponder mysteries of the heart, however, and so with that her gray eyes abandon the specter of herself and she opens the door with the over-casual airs of someone well into her cups, in case anyone should see her. There is a room, two doors down with its door slightly ajar, and the sounds of fucking can be heard from within. She wrinkles her nose in distaste but uses this moment of distracted activity to crouch down, and with just the slightest of pushes she cracks the door further open. During a particularly loud grunt of pleasure she slides the knife into the room and across the floor, and she very nearly smiles when it comes to a stop under the bed, directly under the bodies who rut with vigor atop the mattress.

Arya only needs to slip free of this disgusting place and find her change of clothes before wrapping up this task as neatly as possible, but it takes time; she does not want to bolt and stand out as a creature of suspicion, and so she must suffer the few fools who grope her, tug her into their laps, hands eager to slip past her cloak and down the front of her low cut dress.

“There’s a tiny little thing to warm my knee,” scrapes a man’s voice in her ear. She is prepared to vomit on herself, even piss herself to avoid going much further than these clumsy, fumbling attempts to seduce, and comes close to urinating on this swine whose hand seems fused to her breast, but luckily his earlier conquest returns to find her seat on his lap taken, and with a mighty shove that sends Arya tumbling to her arse on the dirty floor, she has solved this problem in a far less messy fashion. She scrambles to her feet as the man howls a laugh before kissing the bared and offered breast of the triumphant whore, and Arya brushes off the skirts of her dress as if it were the only thing she owned, staggering a bit beneath the weight of the palms of her hands. She exchanges sneers and some choice hand gestures with the bare breasted woman and wheels around on her heel, sauntering with her hips as she walks out.

Once free from the noises and sights and smells and visual assault of The Lazy Eel, Arya makes quick work of the streets, pulling her hood over her head and the cloak around the front of her to hide her dirty dress, walking amongst the merchant wagons, horses and mules, pushed wheelbarrows full of salted fish, children shrieking and laughing as mothers swat them or cuff them about the ears. It is the children she watches for it is a child she struck a bargain with, and sure enough, after walking for no more than three blocks a somber child dressed in a green cloak emerges from an alley. He holds in his hand the orange she bought him, and she knows to follow him when he disappears down an alley.

He stops in the center of the narrow alley beside a heap of crates filled with half rotting cabbages; they must be near a tavern or inn, for there are other crates of food-related refuse, though thankfully the icy air keeps the smells at bay.  _At its worst, White Harbor is nowhere near the best of Flea Bottom._  The boy squats down and from between two stacks of these crates is a clean crate with her clothes folded in them, which he drags out, the box chattering against the bumps of the cobblestones. Wordlessly he stands and holds out his hand, and with as much gab and fanfare as he Arya produces a gold dragon. The child bites it and holds it back to regard it, and with a nod of approval he bows his head to her and scampers back whence they came.  _A pity I’ll never see him again,_  she thinks _, for he is nearly the most competent accomplice I’ve ever had._  She dresses hastily, crouching behind the cabbages and other spoiled foods, ignoring the winter rats that scurry this way and that around her feet, squeaking angrily at the intrusion.

As she pulls her shirts and tunic over her head and against the naked, goose-pimpled skin of her torso, she thinks again of where the heart is, wonders if hers is even in her body anymore.  _It’s at Winterfell, in many, many forms._  She dreamed last night of Gendry again, knows it is Nymeria she connects with when her eyes close after her head hits the pillow, and it was that dream, one of many, that prompted her to say fuck all to any more delay, to wasting any more time shadowing those two disgusting bastards. Because during this dream, Gendry said her  _name_ , staring right into her eyes, and there was the smell of his skin, of wine and of snow in her nostrils when she woke, quaking from the intimacy of that gaze. Hearing  _Arya?_  on his tongue with his southern accent shook her to her core, snapped her out of sleep in the sharp, crackling way that the way lightning strikes the earth. She wants to go home _now_ , and while her job covering Rickon’s tracks is finished, there is the job of securing a horse to take her to Winterfell, to her sister Sansa, her wolf, her dear old friend who sleeps in her bed, her friend whom she wants more than anything to lay  _her_  eyes on, woman’s eyes and not wolf’s, once more.

She has pondered whether or not to make her way to New Castle and reveal herself as Arya Stark to the Manderlys in order to request men to join her on the way back home. Sansa is there, she knows this, and Sansa has likely made this known at least to the lords in the North, therefore guaranteeing a small party of guardsmen, and to arrive home under a Stark banner sounds too good to be true. But then she holds up that image to the person she’s been this past decade and cannot suggest that she has been some sort of lost lady, some noblewoman riding home with her head held high.  _Besides,_ she thinks, _I am more deadly than ten men, let alone the four or five they’d grant me._ And so it is decided that she use this stolen Targaryen coin to buy two horses, one to ride and one for supplies. She will bring her sister bolts of fabric, skins of Arbor gold and bags of herbs and spices, grain and seeds and flower bulbs for her sister to grow in the glass gardens, because Sansa always loved flowers. Arya will not ride in with banners and horns and men and horses, but with all the bounty she can afford to bestow upon the people she loves, because that is where her heart is.

“This here’s a good garron that’ll take you up the White Knife, and a strong enough pony to follow her,” the dealer says with a sniff, a long stemmed pipe bobbing from the corner of his mouth. “Not long ago there was a great wolf here, you know, with a robber and a disfigured woman, and that wolf was taller than most ponies, but not this one, not her,” he nods. “She’s large and strong for her nature.” She narrows her eyes when he tells her the price and he crosses his arms over his barrel chest. For true, she has not made many friends here in White Harbor, and though the Manderlys have always been loyalists to her family, she is eager to show her back to this city.

Arya’s arms fold across her chest, cloak thrown back over her shoulders so he can see that her body language mimics him, and now they are both strutting around his small yard like cocks, heads bobbing as they study the garron and pony. The garron passes her inspection. He braces his hands against his knees and stoops when she crouches down and sits back on her haunches, peering at each hoof of the pony. This makes him nervous enough, and hastily he leads out another pony which, if Arya has any say, has more jaunt to its gait and a higher gloss to its coat. She nods with approval after inspecting its teeth.

“I’ll be wanting bags of feed for both creatures,” she says, standing. Her hand dips lightly into the deep pocket of her woolen pants, and in silence she removes a small handful of dragons from their purse. “And I’ll be wanting them thrown in for no extra charge, seeing as you tried to pull a fast one,” she says, whip crack sharp. He opens his mouth to protest, watery blue eyes hot with outrage beneath his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. “Do you know who you try to swindle, old man?” Arya says, straightening her spine as far as it will go, chin jutting out, though she reins herself in and refrains from jabbing a finger in his chest.

“A sharp tongued chit of a girl trying to pass as some grown lady,” he snaps, yanking the pipe from his mouth so it does not fall to the cold, hard-packed earth.

“I _am_ a lady, Lady Arya Stark _,_ ” she snaps right back, her finger finding purchase against the wool of his jerkin. “I’ll take you to Lord Manderly himself if you don’t believe it to be true, and I’ll have him send a host of ravens to all the Houses in the North to come find the craven horse dealer who tried to rob a Stark on her way back to Winterfell.”

The words come so fiercely from her mouth, like so much water bursting free from a dam, that the burly man actually takes a step back. She follows him, relieved to announce herself after so many years of being faceless, nameless, a woman grown but with a child-like need to belong again, and to reclaim her name and home and House in one breath gives her a rush of pleasure, hot and warm in her chest, in her heart, and it takes everything in her not to grin, not to throw back her head and laugh with joy over being _Arya Stark._ She holds her own, however, and eventually he quails under the attack of words, and before long the garron is saddled and the pony tethered to the pommel.

Arya mounts up and guides her small little train to the entrance of his yard, but she reins up and turns back over her shoulder. _No, he is no friend of mine,_ she thinks with satisfaction as he stands there, arms akimbo, staring at her incredulously. “Keep in mind, the direwolf is the sigil of House Stark, to whom you owe fealty. I’ve a wolf waiting for me in Winterfell, and I have no qualms riding her back down here to let her feast on whatever shit ponies you still have to sell overpriced,” she says as haughtily as she pleases, and with that she kicks her heels into her garron’s sides, and makes her way to market to buy out their wares for her sister, for her heart.

 

“My head feels so heavy I think my neck shall snap from the weight of it,” Sansa says, covering a yawn with her hand that threatens to smother the last of those words. They have drifted from solar to bed chamber now that Jon has retired for the night, and though his men are in the guest house Sansa insisted he take up his old rooms. It is odd and wonderful and comforting and heartbreaking to have him here again, and those feelings, coupled with this plan of Howland Reed’s, all lay themselves atop her exhaustion, and she traipses so tiredly towards the bed that she stumbles. Sandor’s arm catches her easily around her waist, and he draws her in against his chest. She sighs, lets her head fall back against the warmth of him, and his other comes around in a second circle of muscle and bone and long woolen sleeves around her.

“There has been much to think of, to speak of tonight,” he says, his voice deep like a distant thunderstorm, and it’s true; the hour is closer to dawn than to midnight, and Jon has only left the solar ten minutes ago.

“I know Rickon told us on the kingsroad, but to know it, to hear it with my ears and read it with my eyes, and then to see Jon in Winterfell again, just as before but when so much has changed, has truly muddied my mind. I cannot think one thing clearly before another thought leaps over it, and then it is all a tangle,” she says, and another yawn comes up to steal words from her.

“I have never met the man, but he seems to walk with the weight of the world on his shoulders,” Sandor says. “But I suppose it does for true now, no matter what has happened in his past.” They spoke long hours at dinner as well, and she and Sandor learned of all Jon went through on the Wall and north of it. Just thinking of it makes her want to weep, to fall in a dreamless pile of bones on her bed to sleep a thousand days.

“To think he has been my cousin this whole while,” Sansa murmurs. She finds it hard to raise her voice any higher when she has such loveless things to dig up from the past and revive with words. “I never gave him much thought, certainly not as much as my other siblings, but now I feel the loss of him so much, to know truthfully he is _not_ my brother. I can’t even say he _was_ , when we all thought it, for I did not love him well enough as that, not as Arya did…”

“Regardless of your blood, you can call a man your brother, a woman your sister, Sansa,” he says quietly. “If you miss him as such then make him such for true now. Regardless of his last name.”

“To go from Snow to Targaryen, just like that,” Sansa says, shaking her head. She can hear him inhale the scent of her hair as it moves with her head, and despite the sorrowful topic of conversation, she smiles. “But you are right; last names do not matter. It is how we are connected that truly counts.” She folds her arms atop his and beneath this simple gesture of affection she feels him curl around her, head bowing over her shoulder, arms coming into a tighter grip around her.

“How long do you think until we will hear from him?”

Sandor’s voice is shaped by a smile when he answers, a smile for her impatience, curiosity, thirst to know. _You surprise me_ , he told her as they left the Vale, _so courteous and well mannered, but you are as fiery and headstrong as a warhorse._ Now _she_ smiles, to think of it.

“They’ve not even left Winterfell and won’t for a few days yet, so all we do now is wait. And you need your sleep, little bird, to entertain and fatten your guests before they head out for White Harbor.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, walks her step by step towards the bed, a rare move of playfulness for him, and it makes her laugh though she means to chide him.

“ _Our_ guests. For the thousandth time: _Ours. We. Us,_ Sandor,” and he huffs, a hot, tickling breath that makes the hair by her neck billow out.

“You. Sansa. Lady Stark of Winterfell,” he corrects her. Now it is her turn to scoff.

“What about little bird?” she asks, voice a light jest, head turning just so, so that she may get a glimpse of him above and behind her.

“Aye,” he says. “Little bird as well. Little bird most of all.”

She turns in his arms and he loosens his hold on her obligingly, straightens before her under her gaze. This large, formidable man who used to terrify her is now the main source of her comfort, of kind words though she once swore his tongue shaped nothing but cruelty and hurt.

“And what do we call you, hmm? I know not _ser_ ,” she says, tapping his collarbone lightly, and he growls in feigned irritation at the term. “But there is _paramour, lover,_ and there is _oh yes, Sandor, I love you._ Those I may say in reference to you, I hope?”

He rolls his eyes in a gesture of physical want and frustration, and it makes her laugh. “Do not worry, I will go no further in my temptation, for I am far too exhausted to do anything but tease.” She rises up on her toes, the heels of her velvet slippers sliding off her heels to thump lightly on the rug-covered floor, and kisses him. A hand cups her cheek just as her hand does the same, the gnarl of scars a forgotten thing between them; her hands are beginning to callous here with all the work that even all the paperwork and meetings cannot keep her from, and so are no longer as smooth and soft against the rough side to him.

They dress slowly for bed, his eyes on her more often than not, something she’ll never get used to and something of which she’ll never grow tired, and she is thankful the fire burns low at such a late hour, for she wants no distractions to keep her from sleep, no extra source of warmth when she has him to heat her skin and keep her from shivering. But his hands seek her out even when dawn is just a matter of hours away, two maybe three, and she gives him a little growl of her own, swatting the back of his hand under the covers where it is attempting to push up her nightshift.

“Who was the one who said I needed my sleep?” She asks, and his hand stills immediately.

“I meant, hmm, well.” He presses a kiss to the cap of her shoulder and sighs, world weary, heavy the heart that carries such passion. It makes her laugh, and she thinks she might be delirious. “Ah, there. I wish to make my lady laugh.”

“I am not your lady, I am your lover,” she murmurs, though the second she says it she groans, for _that_ will surely stoke a fire she had no intention of even lighting. “And before you even get your hopes up, know that I’ve- I’m out of the moon tea Shireen gave me.”

“ _All_ of it?” he asks in disbelief, half sitting up to gaze at her. She twists to lie on her back, another laugh bubbling up.

“There wasn’t _that_ much,” she protests, and his jaw drops open.

“You showed me that pouch yourself, you were so beside yourself with glee at her generosity. She gave you the entire thing.”

“ _Besides_ ,” Sansa says, feeling somewhat harried. “I’ve no maester to tell me when I am to drink it. So, you know, I drank it- well. I drank it after every time, and I know as well as you that _that_ happens as often as the sun rises, and sometimes more.”

Sandor laughs, falling back to the mattress and his pillow, a hand coming up to rest on his chest. She folds her arms across her breasts and gives the ceiling her best glare, but his laughter is such a treat to hear that soon she’s joining him. It is the expense of this laughter that soon has them drowsing for sleep, and her eyelids are heavy, heavier than his arm around her waist as he draws her back against his chest, their legs bent together beneath the blankets and furs as they curl up with one another on their sides.

“And will you be getting more moon tea?” His voice is hoarse and gruffer than usual from lack of sleep, a deep, dark tickle that can make the hairs of her neck stand up when he says certain things in that husky, sleepy voice.  She exhales a giggle.

“Insatiable man,” she murmurs, closing her eyes once more, but when her eyes open again, it is not from his voice, but the second question it’s asking, maybe, maybe, and she is confused, unsure of how to answer.

“Not insatiable. Well, yes, insatiable, but that’s not what I meant,” and to hear him say it makes her bite her lip. She has long thought of this conversation, has long wondered if it would ever come up. He has always stood by the notion that she should marry high up to strengthen her seat here, but she has swatted that argument down each time as a maid does flies.

“Perhaps I won’t,” she says lightly, staring at her hand that lies on the mattress in front of her face, fingers half curled as if they were waiting to grasp at something, waiting for something to slip in and be claimed by her.

“We are not wed,” he says, close to her ear after his face comes nearer, the words nesting themselves in her hair. “And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She thinks on his words, though she has heard them often enough, and she thinks of the North and its bastards, but then she thinks of Bear Island and all the Lady Mormonts, and while she does not laugh, Sansa does grin, for she has him, now. Her fingers curl shut into a fist, for she holds something sweet and precious now.

“Names don’t matter, remember? Just become a Stark with me here. Here’s where you belong, anyways. Become a Stark, Sandor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry's POV was inspired by "Wants What It Wants" by Andrew Belle, just in case anyone was curious. :)


	17. Chapter 17

“ _What?”_ Rickon is crouched in the tall winter grasses between two snow-capped boulders behind Shireen, watching as she hunts, there to offer encouragement and correction, though they are not so needed, anymore. Still, he enjoys watching her, the way the muscles in her arms have strengthened and how she can hold a drawn bow for several minutes now without wavering; how she can stand or sit still as stone, transforming herself into a statue, braided hair drawn from her face so that he may better observe her, eyes flicking from the blue of hers to her mouth, to the way the ruff of dark gray fur lining the up-drawn hood of her cloak brushes against her cheek. She captivates him usually but now she is mystifying him with this question, and now of all times to ask it.

There are pheasants ahead in the relatively flat little piece of meadow ahead, picking through the knee high, white-yellow grasses to the hard earth beneath for any precious food. So far they have been watching the birds silently for several minutes, waiting for the small flock to fully emerge from a thicket of scrubby trees down the rocky, reedy, snowy hill. She hunts rabbits well, and stalks deer well enough though she has yet to take one down without his help, but never have they hunted any birds, so when she lowers her nocked arrow and glances at him over her shoulder and questions his devotion it nearly sends him arse-down in the snowy grass, he is that flabbergasted.  He repeats his  _What?_ , shaking his head with his eyes wide. She bites her lip, and he watches her white teeth sink into that soft curve, nearly as pale as her skin though tinged with the lightest pink. Shireen sighs and he snaps out of himself and looks up into her eyes, which are narrowed.

“I asked you, why do you love me? Your reaction would suggest something purely physical but I hope there is more to it.” Though she whispers, it is too many words carried on the wind, and the flock of pheasant scatter into the air back towards their thicket. Shireen is a tangle of nerves, he can see it in her fidgeting hands and the sudden downcast of her eyes, and he is not used to such shyness, such insecurity from her, especially now after all they’ve been through. A shriek of wind skates down the mountainside, against his back and into her face, and it sets the shells in her hair to tinkling. “Rickon, please. Is- Did it- I mean, do you only think you love me because we were alone for so long on the road? Was it because I was so dependent on you? Or is it, is it just  _playing_  at love? Like we are playing at being man and wife?”

“Shireen,” he says with a sigh, sitting back now and wrapping his arms around his splayed knees, head bowing as he works hard to find the words he needs to tell her. “I love you because I cannot help myself. I fell in love with you long before I even knew what to call that, what that was. I think- I think it was in Greywater Watch when I started to realize it. You and that split dress,” he murmurs, trailing off a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with a cold hand. “I saw you for  _you_  in that moment, that night, and there was just no going back, from there. It had nothing to do with dependency, and there was and is no playing, for me.” When Rickon looks up she is smiling at him, teeth still pressed to the flesh of her lower lip, and again his eyes are drawn down to it.

“As for the physical,” he says, “that most certainly  _is_  playing, for it takes two to play that game, and you and I know both players are extremely willing,” and he grins when he hears her huff by way of reply. “But I’ll have you know that while I’ve been with other women before, I’ve never loved them. I have never loved anyone save you, and I do not plan on loving anyone else.”

“Oh,” is all she says, hushed, a mere expelled breath. He smiles, shaking his head in confusion, and rocks off his arse and back to his feet, still in a crouch but leaning forward so that he might kiss her. Her teeth free her lip for him, and her mouth opens against his. He lowers his knees to the cold ground and pulls her gently in his lap, relishing in the warmth of her out here in the elements, thousands of feet above the sea, that much closer to the clouds above them. She drops the bow and arrow and comes willingly to him, head resting on his shoulder when she breaks the kiss, and he chuckles, shaking his head again.

“Where in the seven kingdoms did  _that_  come from? Do you truly doubt me so much? After everything we’ve been through? I have killed men for you, left the world behind for you,” he starts, but she stops him with a finger against his mouth. He bites it, lightly, earning a smile from her.

“You left the world behind for my father, because it was asked of you, though. It was your  _job_  as a man in my father’s army, as his subject, and not your  _choice_. It changed your entire life, rather against your will.”

“Your father, Ser Davos’s request is why I left it initially, yes. The task was the job, but you weren’t. You are a person, not a task. It is  _you,_ why I leave it so willingly, why it is no longer of any consequence.”

“I know that we,” she heaves a sigh, pauses to regain her words. “I know that we developed feelings for each other, but we were thrown together in unbelievable circumstances. I just didn’t want to love you this much, as completely as I do when it was simply a forced reaction for you. I didn’t know if your feelings simply grew because I was the only women there, if it could have happened with any other and not just me.”  

“Seven hells,” he whispers. “You’ve no idea, woman. No idea. I have been lost in you because you are  _you,_  and I have no desire to find my way out. It is because you are Shireen Baratheon. I’ll have no other, if you’ll have  _me_.”

“That brings me to my point,” she says, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, fingers playing with the direwolf clasp Osha had made for him, gave to him the day after they arrived. “I mentioned that we’re playing at man and wife, even here with Osha and Tor, who couldn’t care less if we are or if we are not.” He nods in agreement with a little shrug. Clouds scud overhead with increasing rapidity, and he knows they must leave soon, but this conversation seems too important to interrupt, to stall, to delay, and so he simply draws her closer to his body, twists so that he rests his back against the cold boulder to their left.

“It seemed the best thing, to call you my wife, to lay claim so none others would think there was a chance,” he says, only a little darkly, having to imagine some man try to slide between them, and the muscles in his left arm, the arm that is around her shoulders, tighten ever so slightly, a reflex to even the idea that it could happen.

“Then why don’t you call me your wife for true, then, Rickon? We lay as man and wife, we live as man and wife, so why are we simply man and woman, still? Why am I not your wife?” She lifts her head and he lifts his as well to allow the movement, and she draws back somewhat to gaze at him. It is unwavering, unflinching, all the insecurity from earlier gone, evaporated, stolen by the Skagosi wind, and he smiles. She is ever bold, and he muses over explaining that this is yet another reason he loves her, but instead cuts to the chase.

“Do you want to be my wife, Shireen?” Her eyes are vivid, dark, stormy things, but they seem light as a summer’s sky when he asks, and it warms him. Rickon has thought of this several times, wedding her in truth, but to drag a woman from her father, down the kingsroad through the marshes and mud, onto a ship with cutthroats over a miserable sea to land on a wild isle of lawlessness, and then ask for her hand, seemed a bit much, and so he convinced himself to wait, to give her time. He should have known better, and now he feels a fool, though delightfully so.

“Yes. Do you want me as your wife?” He could laugh, the idea of having to ask is so silly, so unnecessary. But he’d not laugh at her, not with this sweet, heavy question hanging like ripe fruit between them. So he plucks it.

“Yes,” he says, lifting a hand to cup her face, the greyscale in the palm of his hand. Shireen smiles, tipping her head into the caress, eyes sliding closed briefly before looking back at him. Though they are out in the open, the gray sky above and the salt-white ground beneath them, slate colored boulders on either side with the occasional shriek of a sea bird flapping by, to Rickon it feels like they are back in their little room in the White Harbor inn.

“Will you marry me, then?” She asks, and he lifts her chin to kiss her, drawing her hood back so that he may drive his fingers into her hair; it’s as cold as his skin, but he did not do it for the warmth, only for the feel of her, for the closeness and the silk of it. She twists to press close, curving around him like a bow, legs curled and tucked against his side beneath his arm. Snow falls with earnest now, and Rickon thinks if they are buried here, locked in this lovely kiss for an eternity, that he would be satisfied.

“I will marry you,” he murmurs against her mouth. She hums with pleasure and he is eager to please. “I will be your husband and warm your bed and tend your fires and kiss your feet. I will slay your foes. I will bring you furs to set across your lap, I will bring you meat and wine, I will feed you with my bare hands, so long as you call yourself my wife, Shireen. So long as I can call you my wife.” She smiles, eyes still closed, kisses him sweetly, once, twice, thrice before opening her eyes to see him, before speaking.

“Better call me ‘mother,’ as well,” she whispers, and Rickon’s mouth drops open, and he thinks he knows what a stopped heart must feel like, what it must feel like for time to come crashing to a halt, the minutes and seconds and years falling down all around him with the flakes of snow.

 

His arms freeze around her, still as the stone he leans against, and Shireen questions her timing, her judgment, is gripped with terror at this silent reaction of his. Her gaze drops and she stares at his hand that rests on her upper thigh, his long fingers that she has seen grip swords and knives but also her wrists, her hips, her hair. Strong but gentle. She focuses on it as she gnaws the inside of her cheek, fretting, heart hammering against the naked truth she has just let loose.

“But- There was- You had moon tea,” he says. “There was moon tea. Meera, she said it was moon tea.” He stammers, he stutters, he is shocked, this she can tell, and now she feels like an idiot.

“I gave it to your sister,” Shireen says. It all sounds so _stupid_ now that she says it. She and Rickon were on the brink of love when she slipped the pouch into Sansa’s hand, minutes before his sister’s departure, but it seemed the right thing to do. _They were sharing a tent,_ she thinks wildly, _but then so were we at that point._

“Sansa?” He says incredulously. “I’m- I don’t understand. Shireen, you’re- we’re- there’s going to be- you’re- for true?”

 _Oh gods, what have I done, what have I done,_ she thinks, and she scoots off of his lap, scrambles, and his arms loosen, let her leave, and that breaks her heart into pieces, how easily he undoes his embrace, but she strengthens herself, pressing her knees to the cold ground as she crouches before him, eyes lifted to his face, and she can see the shock and disbelief there, the slack jaw and the widened eyes, can see how the impact of her confession plays over and over in his eyes.

“Rickon, look at me,” she says, and he abides her. He looks empty to her, arms hanging limply at his sides, and she realizes he is without cause or purpose in this moment, so overcome he is with shock.

“Is this why you want to marry me? Is this why you asked, why you brought this up?” And now she understands.

“No. _No,_ I want to marry you because I am in love with you. I would not marry you for, for what, for propriety? For the standing. I admit I did ask if you loved me because of, because of, oh,” she says, faltering, tears springing up from nowhere, and she hates herself for it. She is stronger than this, she is a Baratheon and she has _fury_ on her side, but now she is just a foolish girl on her knees in the dirt, pregnant and crying, feeling more alone in front of her love than she has ever felt before. Shireen squeezes shut her eyes, and before she can help herself she drops her face into her hands, hoping to hide the tears, fearing she will drown in them.

Rickon rescues her.

“You worried that I did not love you even though you carry my child,” he says, voice threaded with the resolve that is so typical of him, snapping into himself, it would seem, at the first sign of her distress. She nods, face still hidden, and her gloves are wet from her tears. She can smell the leather, feel it snag against the greyscale. “Silly woman,” he whispers. “Silly wife,” he says, and she hears a smile. “Silly mother,” Rickon says to her, moving, creeping closer to her, and when he slides a hand to her, over her folded legs, pushing through the folds of her cloak to rest it against her stomach, still flat because she has only just figured out the mystery of her lost moon’s blood, Shireen sobs out loud. He removes his hand, stands and pulls her up, gently tugging her hands away from her face to hold them as he draws her up to her feet. She sighs, a great heaving thing, before she finally lifts her face and looks at him. 20 years old and he smiles at her with so serene a smile she has no words for him. He’s to be a father this young, and he _smiles_ at her, as if she has handed him a flower or some other trifle, instead of this life changing news.

“Please don’t cry,” he murmurs, a hand on the small of her back as he pulls her towards him, bodies flush together now, as his other hand lifts to brush tears from her cheeks. His bare skin is a cold wonder on her face. “I hate it when you cry, I hate to see you so upset,” he says, confirming her suspicions, and she laughs through her tears to hear it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, casting her eyes down, tipping her face into his touch.

“I hope you aren’t,” he says, kissing her on the forehead, his hand sliding to the nape of her neck. “I’d rather you be happy, to give me such news as this,” he says, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

“How can you be so calm?” She asks, looking up at him. “How can you be so steady?” He smiles kindly, moves the hand from her neck to brush the hair from her shoulder, away from her face. He kisses her.

“Because you need it of me, Shireen,” he says. “I will do anything, if you need it of me.”

He is ginger with her, treating her like a fragile bird on their walk back to Kingshouse, holding her hand as she picks her way down a steep hill, offering to carry her over a thin scrawl of a brook, which makes her laugh, and he peppers her with questions. How long the babe has been there, how long as she known ( _Only just_ , she replies to both). Is she ill, does she ache, does it hurt, is she all right. _A little, no, no, yes, Rickon I am fine,_ she answers all, laughing finally, but she trips up on the final query.

“Did you not think we’d lie together, then? Is that why you gave her the moon tea?” His head is bowed and at last he shows insecurity, and over this of all things. She wants to laugh harder, but knows better.

“No, I- well,” she starts, and when she tells him that she thinks there was a part of her that _wanted_ this, that held out hope for this life, for the way their fates have unfolded, entwined as they are, he stops and drags her towards him, kissing her so soundly her legs feel weak afterwards. _Oh, he loves me,_ she thinks, she knows, she understands now, how profoundly he loves her, and it sets her heart to beating.

 

“I need to talk to you,” he says roughly, pushing past Osha when she opens her chamber door, heading straight for one of the chairs in front of her hearth, which is aglow with a hearty fire.

“Please, ser, pray do enter and seat yourself,” she says with a flowery accent, shutting the door and following him. He hunches forward and rests his elbows on his knees, holding his head in his hands. He needs a shave and a haircut, he can tell. He is to be a father, and he cannot even groom himself in a timely fashion. Rickon thinks he is going to lose his mind. Part of him wants to cry.

“She’s with child,” he says bluntly, letting the words fall out of his mouth. Shireen is carrying _his_ child, there is to be a baby, his baby. He left her in their rooms to bathe, to warm herself after their hunt – _should pregnant women even hunt? Should she be out in this weather? Oh gods –_ under the pretense of fetching more wine, and nearly ran to Osha’s chambers, his heart in his throat or his stomach, somewhere, anywhere but where it should be, he is that terrified.

“Well with the way you two are at each other, I have to wonder at your shock,” Osha says, dropping herself into the chair beside him. There is a flagon of wine on the little table between them but just one cup, half full, and though it is clearly hers she lifts it and holds it out to him, nudging his shoulder with it. He can hear the wine slosh in the pewter cup, so heightened are his senses in this moment, as if he is on a hunt, but for the time being he feels more the prey than the hunter.

“It’s yours,” he says, and Osha laughs, which makes his eyes narrow in irritation at her cheek.

“You clearly need it more,” she states simply, and he cannot argue with her. Rickon sits up with a sigh and take the cup from her hands, glaring at her though she is all amusement, and drains it in one slug. “There he goes,” she says and he sets the cup down with a slap to the table.

“I’m going to be a _father,_ Osha,” he says, all emphasis, all stress.

“Aye, you are. You’ve been plenty other titles, my boy, I don’t know why this one bothers you so. Are you not happy? Does it upset you to know this?”

“No, of course not. I’m- I’m happy, yes, of course, it’s Shireen. She’s- I mean, we’re going to marry. I mean, we aren’t married, not yet, I lied about that, but we’re going to. I just- it’s all so fast. I just- we didn’t even- What?” He feels dizzy, and he closes his eyes.

Osha laughs again, and scoots her chair closer to him, nearly directly in front of his. “Come here, you,” she says, arms outstretched as she tugs him to her, holds him in an awkward yet not unwelcome embrace. “You’re working yourself into a right lather. Take a breath and calm yourself.” Rickon does as she says and draws air into his lungs, expels it in a rush, and repeats the exercise several times, feeling his pulse slow as Osha rubs his back. He feels a child all over again, flashes back to when they first came to this island, when they slept in the same bed and she held him as if he were her son, as he sobbed and sobbed throughout the night.

“I’m so scared,” he says, here in the safe space of her arms. “I’m scared I can’t do this.”

“Oh stop this nonsense,” she says, voice soft though her words aren’t. “You’ve escaped death, you’ve been a soldier, a wildling, a savage. You’ll be a husband and then a father. Those are the sweetest things out of all of them, they are nothing to quake at,” she says, squeezing him with an arm around his shoulders before releasing him and sitting back in her chair. He does the same, sitting up to look at her, and she tilts her head with a smile when he does.

“Killing is easy. Running is easy. But to be a father… Osha, how will I do it? What do I do?”

“You love,” she says. “That’s all, and to see how you love Shireen, it seems to come natural to you. The babe will simply be an extension of you and of her. Tell me, Rickon, does it come easily to you? Loving her?”

“It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he says without hesitation, because it is the truth.

“Then you will love this child all the more,” she says, and she leans forward, resting a hand atop his. “Believe me. Loving a child takes nothing,” and he knows the weight of her words, knows what fills them, and it makes him smile.

“You don’t seem to be worried,” he says.

“To have this fear means it matters to you, being a father, a _good_ father. I’d be far more worried if meant little to you.”

“It means everything,” he says, because it does. Osha smiles, pats his hand before standing to drag her chair back to its rightful place. She pours more wine into her cup and sips it, twice, before handing it wordlessly to him, and he huffs a chuckle, taking it and draining it again. She fills it again and this time keeps it, settling back against the cushion in her chair, gazing into the cup thoughtfully.

“There’s a wedding to plan, if I understand correctly,” she says lightly, and he laughs for true.

“Aye, I reckon there is,” he replies, and she peppers him with questions of cloaks and godswoods, courses for the feast, and when he returns to his chambers an hour later, darkened as they are from the late hour and the dwindling fire, stripping naked and sliding between the sheets to curl up against the bare back of his woman, he is calmed, resolved, eager. She stirs slightly when his hand slides over her hip and to her belly, palm pressed to the soft flesh there, and her hand comes to rest atop his, and in this fashion they fall asleep, and Rickon dreams of wolves and children playing together in a field full of pheasants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I tagged it as fluff, right? TIME TO FULFILL THAT.
> 
> Next chapter will have A Very Special Reunion.


	18. Chapter 18

Sandor hangs back as Sansa and Jon embrace before the man in his blacks must go south, giving them the distance and togetherness they need. He is glad they had a chance to reconnect, that they decided to think as themselves more as siblings than cousins. Too much has happened to tear the Stark family apart; accepting new ways to define themselves would add unnecessary strife and confusion. He thinks fleetingly of his own brother, dead these many years. How lucky he would have been, were Gregor just a cousin from afar and not a brother. Lost in thought though he watches Sansa closely, Sandor lifts a hand to his cheek, ghosting along the scars, intentionally for the first time in years, save for washing his face every day. Jay walks by with an armload of battered, dulled swords, glancing his way, catching the movement. Sandor drops his hand and glares at him, and the other man has the decency to look at the ground, keeping his clever wit to himself.

They stand in the gallery to keep out of the ill weather that is miserable and wet today, more sleet and rain than snow, though there’s that as well, and there are whispers that it could herald the coming of spring, but Sandor is not so sure. One day does not make a season, one smile does not make a laugh, though if one were to judge by Sansa and even him, they would say that could be true enough. They are all smiles lately, though his are shadowed and given to her in secrecy while hers are warm rays of sunlight filtering through the clouds of his moods and his silence, shining on him whenever she pleases, which is often enough.

There are no smiles for the present, however, not as she bids farewell to another family member, off on another unfathomable, weary journey against the odds. Jon says his goodbyes to the rest of them there, Sandor included, and they all exit to the yard to see them off; the Lord Commander mounts up and his men follow suit, save for one, and before long the yard is empty and the small gathering who came outside to see them off scurries for cover either in smithy, stables, kitchens or keep. The Watchmen will ride the relatively short way to the White Knife and sail to White Harbor, and then on to King’s Landing to parlay with a dragon queen. So far, he’s seen two Starks beat the odds, the only two he believes are still alive; they’ll have to see how  _this_  one does, regardless of what name he chooses in the end.

_Names don’t matter, remember? Just become a Stark with me here… Become a Stark, Sandor._

Oh, how she robbed him of his sleep that night nearly a week ago, and how he has tossed and turned ever since, lost himself in the midst of tasks around the keep and the yard. He hunts the wolfswood and finds himself sitting atop Stranger –  _he will always be Stranger, to me –_  staring blankly at the trees, and likely a hundred animals creep past him but he sees naught but the image of him standing before the heart tree in a cloak of gray and white, swept over his shoulders by Sansa’s own hand. She would give him her name, and in truth he prefers it to his own, tainted as it is from his devil of a brother, but there is the haunting of her family, her father who died at the command of a king to whom he played dog; brother and mother murdered for that same king’s family; the loss of her sister when she left him for dead, when he failed in that task as well. Sandor wonders how many of their ghosts would rise up to drag him to every level of hell there is, were he to accept the name Stark, to rise in ranks from dog to wolf.

“Sandor?” She is frowning at him, and he shakes himself from these thoughts of his, thoughts that always turn dark at the end, looks to her as she stands beside Sam Tarly, who will stay on as maester here, at least until Jon returns.

“Aye, sorry,” he says, clearing his throat and holding out his bent elbow, into which she slides her hand with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, giving a kind smile to both him and Sam.

“I’ve got to send a raven to Rickon, telling him Jon sails for King’s Landing,” she says, and how bitter her sweet voice can turn when it shapes that city name, and it’s spoken quickly, to get the sour taste out as soon as she can. “So, while I’m at it, I’m going to show Sam the way to the maester’s tower. Then I’ve got a ridiculous squabble between Flint and Wull to dissect. They wait in the hall but I’ve no patience for their complaints at the moment, so I’m off on this tour. Will I see you at dinner?”

“You will,” he says, glancing out a narrow, diamond-paned window across the yard to the maester’s tower, eyes lifting to its peak. Ravens fly back and forth with frequency as of late, to and from the Wall and Skagos, to King’s Landing and to the Citadel in Oldtown, asking for a replacement for either old maester Luwin or this young maester Samwell, should he decide to return to Castle Black. There will be more ravens still, when they get word from Jon down south, if they have news to send to Rickon, if they decide to marry and send out word to her fellow northmen.  _That_  makes him nervous, and he wonders if it would be easier facing dragons than the men and women of the North, regardless of those creatures’ unnatural fire. He nods to Sam and rests a hand atop the one she has tucked into his arm, and she smiles brightly to him. Bright is a good word for it; in just this past week they’ve received more  signs of support, money from rents and tokens of welcome, and it drags her from whatever depths she lets herself drown in, sometimes. Any small success is another breath of life for her and therefore a boon for him.

“Go on, then, and do try not to scare anybody,” she says, and he grunts in amusement. “Well, maybe a Wull, if one of them drinks too much in my absence. If only those men would take more of the bread than of the ale we offer,” she says with a grin, and then she lets him go, turning to exit into the weather once more and cross the yard with a hood pulled up over the auburn river of her hair, taking Sam’s arm instead, and the wide man stands a little taller to have such a lady on his arm, and since he is alone, since there is no one to see, Sandor smiles.

There is enough with which he can occupy himself until nightfall, but Sandor is unsure of where his heart lies. Jay is likely in the forge with Gendry, judging by those swords he carried out. Sandor bears no love for Jay, though he is growing more fond of the smith; but there is a great chance that the direwolf will be there as well, so taken is she with him. Indeed, if she is not at Sansa’s side she is with him, and therefore the forge sounds too crowded a place to visit or work. And while he can always muster the energy for anger, he has no desire to irritate himself intentionally by listening to the mountain clansmen bicker in Sansa’s hall as they wait for her to settle the argument for them, as if they are children and not lords of their own halls. The rain and sleet and mud do not beckon him either, so swordplay and practice are not an option. He could visit his horse, but there are too many stable boys here now, underfoot as they learn their trade, and he does not want to stand there like a mummers sideshow, he the man with the hideous scars.

So Sandor finds himself in the armory, sitting to take the pressure off his leg, the limp of which is even more evident on stormy days such as this, polishing boiled leather and swords, cleaning oil and dirt that these green squires and boys missed with an old rag. He is pleased to see the collection is growing, nearly on a daily basis, and it is only one example of how they begin to thrive. The household staff is nearly full now, their love for their lady evident in how eagerly they come begging positions. Men come to swear fealty as guardsmen, filling the barracks again, stalking along the walls with new ferocity and sitting merrily enough at the trestle tables, weary yet happy to rebuild and fortify even knowing that pay will not be in full for some time. But the coffers grow too, as do the vegetables and stores of grain. Winterfell is breathing again, very nearly on her own, given life from there being a Stark rattling around in her walls once more.

 _Names don’t matter, remember?_ Her lovely voice a tumble against the mattress as she speaks to him, his own words against him, or for him depending on the outlook, the gentle curve of her spine arching against his chest through their nightshirts, her hip beneath his hand, a miracle that he cannot believe even to this day. He works in silence and solitude for well over two hours, silent save for the words running in circles around his head.  _Just become a Stark with me here. Here’s where you belong, anyways. Become a Stark, Sandor._

The door opens and a gust of damp air blows in, and he looks up. “Clegane,” says Brienne in her clipped way before she turns and closes the door, and he wants to laugh at the timing of being so called, when he has a new name within his grasp. She’s never a conversationalist, even after a few cups of wine, but is most certainly always more reserved than usual when she is around him, and so he simply grunts by way of response. She is Jay’s closest friend, more than likely lover though they are ever secretive, ever reserved in public, and she knows the two deformed men bear ill will towards each other. He could remind her she fought for Renly and his Tyrells before marching all along the riverlands looking for Stark girls; he could remind her she loves a Lannister no matter what he calls himself today; he could remind her of Oathkeeper, which now hangs on the wall behind him in a place of honor, Stark steel no matter how many lions got their dirty paws on it. But he doesn’t. It’s a new realm now, and to throw old fealties in people’s faces would only guarantee he’d get his own treacheries tossed at him, like so much dirt or dog shit. Dog shit.  _That_  makes him laugh despite his company.

“Happy to see her kinsman go?” Brienne asks quietly, and he starts with surprise at so blatant a dig on his character.  _It’s been too few years since I have_ had _any character,_  he supposes, and simply shakes his head, bowing it over his work, grunting again. “Happy to have her all to yourself again, all your own once more,” she adds, sitting down a ways from him, polishing her battered armor she wore what feels like a lifetime ago, though they’ve been here, what, three months? The last accusation is too much for silence to be a satisfactory enough reply.

“She’s more the north’s and Winterfell’s than mine, and I’m happy to see it that way. I’ll do no more than be content to live and die in her shadow, that’s the only reason I’m here. That and to see her safe, until I last draw breath.”

“Poetry from The Hound,” she says, and he  _hears_  the smirk in her voice. Sandor grits his teeth.

“The Hound is dead,” he mutters. “I felt him bleed out of me under a tree.”

“Aye, I know it, I saw the husk of you digging graves not long after.”

“Husk, eh? This husk can still kill a man, or a woman who walks as one.”

“And here I thought the Hound was dead, though he seems to have risen up as a specter to threaten me,” Brienne snaps, and Sandor throws the rag down on the floor by his feet with exasperation, chucking the sword onto the low table beside him.

“And here  _I_  thought we’d left the past behind, and you come in to dig it all up. Who’s the gravedigger now?” He snarls, and she has the decency to look at her hands.

“You should set her free, Clegane,” she says quietly, and though her voice is soft in the otherwise silent armory, it is clear that his name is an accusation, nearly as big an insult as The Hound. “She needs a highborn lord to add strength to these walls, a young enough man to be a father as well as a husband,” and it stings, the slap of those words against his heart, though he knows the truth of them. He wants to say  _You try telling a wolf to unsink her fangs from what she wants_  but he will have no heart to heart with this woman.

“I do what she asks of me, what she needs of me, nothing more and nothing less,” he says simply, hunched over his thighs before reaching down for the rag on the floor, straightening his back when he sits up. Her dig about age haunts him as his spine cracks, and he holds his breath, glancing up under his brows to see if she sniggers or laughs at this telltale sign of his dwindling virility. She does not look back at him, however.

“You should think beyond what she asks, seeing as it suits _you_ so well, instead of making her look less of a- less of a- well,” she says, unable to finish, and Sandor’s anger blooms in his chest at the thought of Sansa being insulted or mocked over what they share between the two of them. He rises to his feet and Brienne does the same, fast as a cat despite her size.  _I used to be quick like that,_  he thinks.

“You’re one to talk, woman, slinking around here with  _Jay_ as if we aren’t all aware of it. Interestingly enough in this big fucking place, we’ve yet to know where you rest your head at night or where he does. I’d wager a hundred coins it’s side by side in some dusty old room. I don’t see you golden haired idiots rushing off to the sept here, do I?”

Brienne clenches her large hands into fists and glowers at him, the brightness of her blue eyes clouded over with anger.  _Good_ , he thinks.  _I’ve enough of this shit treatment from people who behave the same way. At least I’m honest about it._

 “I’m no lady like Sansa, it doesn’t matter in the e--”she starts, but he slams his fist against the table in order to silence her.

“Oh aye, you’re a lady well enough with a land in the south where you can play Lord and Lady if you so wish, a nice isolated isle where he can call himself Jay as long as he wants, or Jasyn or whatever fucking version of his cunt name that he wants.” The armory echoes with his anger.   

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, I couldn’t- we can’t just- He’s…” And he barks a laugh.

“Aye, I know well enough. We all know who he  _is,_  Brienne, at least the ones who traveled alongside you. Who the fuck cares? If I think long enough and well enough on it, seems as the only one who cares about this silly shit is you, and much to your own fucking misery,” he snaps, throwing the rag down again as he storms out, brushing roughly past her. She moves out of his way, standing down instead of confronting, and for that he’s relieved. There is but one woman he wants to see standing before him, and it certainly isn’t her; there is but one thing he needs to say, and it’s nothing he cares to say to her.

It is two more hours until she is finally free of her duties as Lady of Winterfell, and he has spent them pacing in the chambers they share. Two hours round and round, through to the solar and back again. He thinks of ordering a bath for her, but he has words he needs to speak, decisions to make, old wrongs to right, and his patience cannot handle a delay. He is a frenzy of emotion, anger and anxiety and sorrow and guilt, all the things that have always made him who he is but with different ratios than they are now. There is far less of two, more of the others, and it is in this state that she finds him, a laugh on her lips as she concludes a lighthearted conversation with a passing maid, and nearly runs headfirst into his chest when he swiftly comes to her, hands on her elbows.

“Sandor, why whatever is the matter?” She exclaims, smile still there though it’s formed more from her surprise than her earlier merriment. He exhales, squeezing his eyes shut, unsure of what he is about to do.  _You said you’d never hurt her, and would always keep her safe. More than one way to do that, and even if it seems wrong, you know it’s the right thing to do._

“Sansa,” he says, voice rough, as it always is, and he sidesteps, leaning over her to gently push the door shut, not daring to speak until the latch clicks and he knows they stand there in relative privacy. “I’ve,” he says, then sighs. “I’ve been thinking on what you said the night Jon and his men arrived, after he left your solar.”

“The moon tea,” she says with a sly smile, and he wants to roll his eyes, but he cannot waver from this topic no matter how easily she can slip into the skin of a vixen. He leads her to the two chairs positioned before the bright, crackling fire, made of strong wood and iron studs, their seats and backs covered in the thick weave of tapestried cushions. They are faded gifts from House Glover and much appreciated, no less comfortable for their well-worn condition. He angles one towards the other and bids her to sit, which she does, smoothing her dark blue skirts over her thighs, and then he aims the other towards her, close enough so their knees nearly touch once he settles himself into it. Try as he might, it’s impossible not to touch her, not this close, when they’ve spent so many years apart, and so his hands drift over, crossing the sea of warm, fire-lit air to skate his fingers across the narrow, fine-boned caps of her knees.

“Sansa,” he says, and of all the times to have shyness, the struggle to lift his eyes to hers, a pale, sad gray to the vivid blue he knows and loves so well, eyes that could never be disguised though her hair can be dyed. Instead he stares at his hands, finding he has no idea where to begin.

“Sandor, you’re scaring me,” Sansa says, leaning over, covering his gnarled hands with her own. That snaps him out of his self-inflicted stymie and he stares up at her. “Oh gods, you’re- you don’t want to, do you? I’ve gone and terrified you, haven’t I? Are you going to _leave_?” she says. Her hands fly from his and he reaches out, snatching them midair before they lift to cover her face, catching them as cats catch birds. _There,_ he thinks, _I’m not so slow these days after all._ He readjusts their hands so he clasps hers more gently in his and leans in to her, happy that the firelight warms his unscarred cheek, that his affliction is hidden in shadow when he says this to her, and now he looks at her, openly, still sees her apprehension in the frown on her face, in the worry of her eyes and in the press of her lips. He’d not see that look ever again, if he had his way.

“No, no,” he says, and somehow he is not close enough, so he crouches between their chairs, sitting on his haunches, the curve of his broad back pushing his chair several inches behind him. He holds her hands in his and looks up into her eyes, glad to see the anxiety there has melted away, that now anticipation mingles there with her typical warmth, the warmth she reserves for him. “No, that’s not it at all, it’s the opposite. I can’t leave you, my girl. There’s not a bone in my body that would obey that command unless it came from your lips. I’ll do whatever it takes, little bird. I will be there at your heart tree. I will become a Stark for you.”

 

It has become so cold, Arya wishes her tent was big enough to fit the pony in with her, she sleeps that poorly at night, tucked between scrubby bushes and the shorter trees that eke out a living beneath and between the pines that line the raised banks of the White Knife. But no, the selfish nag stands closest to the garron, their warm, shaggy bodies pressed close side by side beneath the boughs of pine. She is left to curl in on herself beneath oiled canvas, the pitch of the tent so low to the ground one could hardly discern it from a beige colored boulder, even from nearby. Still, however close it is to the ground she still shivers and her teeth still chatter, and she wonders why in seven hells she didn’t just send a raven and ride a ship upriver.

And there have been boats, each one a taunt in the face of her misery, though mostly they are smaller things, gliding down or rowing up as easy as you please. Though there was a large one sailing downstream just south of the fork, four days past, with several men all dressed in black on its deck, which made her think of Jon, made her miss him terribly. But though she is tempted to call out to those riding upstream, whenever she catches sight of sails she pauses behind the tree line, out of sight, taking no chances even though she is a Stark come home to roost, even though by rights anyone in the North should be honored to see her safely behind Winterfell’s walls. But all of her years on Essos away from the wars and conflict and blood cannot erase the war and conflict and blood she witnessed and felt and tasted; she will ride undercover until she is beyond certain that her wolf dreams are true. _They are,_ she thinks. _They have to be._

The dreams do not stop, have not since her last night in Braavos when she woke with her heart hammering, and they are the only things she has to warm herself at night. She stalks through her old rooms and the hallways, scratches on Sansa’s door – _it was once our father’s door –_ until The Hound opens it up. She growls at _him_ plenty but enters anyways, curls up beside Sansa, trying to figure out how to make a wolf say _I’m sorry_ without it sounding like a snarl. And there is Gendry, ever in her chambers when she slips into her wolf at night. Sometimes she blinks into the wolf and she finds herself curled up by the fires in his forge while he pounds away at his work, and though the noise is murder to her ears, the heat and comfort of his fires and his presence make her wish she’d never wake up.

But she wakes, and she shivers and it feels like her blood is frozen in her veins, and she thinks maybe her blood is thinned from spending so many years as south as Braavos. She thinks it now as she balls up tighter into herself under her layers of blankets and two cloaks, the dawn blooming all around her even under the tree cover. More than one, she has thought of unrolling the bolts of linen and wool and even the small one of silk, to bundle herself up in them and final be free of the nighttime chills, but she bought those for Sansa, and since the pony won’t sleep with her, she won’t lighten his burden, either. Her feet ache from sleeping in boots for two weeks, and the twinge in her shoulder from sleeping on the ground makes her feel far older than six and twenty. But still, she is close, camped here where the river meets the kingsroad. Cerywn is half a day away, and Winterfell will be hers by sunset.

Arya makes a small fire and heats wine in a little pot, squatting beside it like a peasant child, arms wrapped like vises around her legs, fingers tucked between her calves and thighs, and when the steam curls up from the wine, finally, she grabs the pot in her twice-gloved fingers, relishing in the heat that emanates from it almost more than the warmth she gets from the wine itself. She breakfasts on hard cheese and her last cold, cooked sausage from last night’s dinner, and if she wasn’t so used to living life this sparsely, she’d be proud of herself for making her fare last until the last day. There is a heel of stale bread that she decides to do away with, thinking she will glut herself within the hall of her old home, and so she dunks it in the warm wine to soften it and devours it with relish before putting out and covering up her fire and setting out up the kingsroad.

The sky spits sleet on her and a spattering of hail that makes her spit language back at it that would make her sister blush, and her garron shakes his head and snorts in frustration, his dark outlook on the day responded to in kind by the pony behind them. It’s not long before she sees activity, and though everyone seems either cheery or busy or both, it still makes her nervous, though she has faced far more peril in her life than oxcarts or wheelbarrows full of tubers. She keeps her head down and hood up, focusing instead on how she sees the wolfswood coming up on her left, and before long the curls of chimney smoke plume out from clusters of houses as she comes to and passes Cerwyn. The frequency of people on the roads does not diminish, however, and she is surprised to see that these supplies and smallfolk do not remain in Cerwyn’s vicinity, but amble ever north up the kingsroad.

“Do you ride for Winterfell, old mother?” Arya starts in her saddle when she realizes the young man standing on the side of the road talks to her. She sizes him up and takes him for one of the several crofters in the area, judging by his dress and the tethered goat beside him who stubbornly crops away at a tuft of winter grass beside the road, which has clearly halted his progress. Against her better judgment she reins up, simply too amused at being called “old mother,” and lowers her hood.

“I do, if it please you,” she says, and while she cannot hide her smirk, neither can he hide his horror. “Forgive me, but with your hood down, I couldn’t- I didn’t know,” he says, bowing his head in humiliation. She laughs.

“I will take it as a compliment to my excellent costuming skills,” she says, though she dresses more as a man than an old woman. _Not everyone can have the mind of a maester,_ she thinks. But her words delight him, for he looks up with bright eyes and a brighter smile. 

“Oh, and do you perform? Are you going to perform during the wedding feast? Will there be a mummers play?”

“Wedding feast?” She stares blankly at him, too confounded by this news to maintain the illusion of knowledge.

“Aye, the Lady Sansa and some man of lower standing, no one knows for certain. It’s not to be a _big_ celebration,” he says with a face that suggests he is one of the many not invited. “But it is Winterfell’s first feast since her walls were put right again, so I suppose there’s joy in that.” Then he cocks his head as he looks at her. “But if you didn’t know then why do you head for there?”

“Because it’s my home,” she says sharply, digging her heels into the belly of her horse, clucking her tongue over her shoulder in hasty encouragement to the pony, and she canters the rest of the way to Winterfell, leaving the man in her wake.

The increase in speed helps her, but the sun is not long for this world by the time she slows to a trot in the midst of Winter Town, Winterfell looming up behind it. _It’s the same and it’s completely different,_ she thinks, and suddenly she wonders why she did not think of what she’d say when she got here, that entire last leg of her journey, and suddenly she wants to turn tail and run. She has not seen a single person from her old life in over seven years, and suddenly she is returning to a castle of them. And there is the matter of The Hound in her sister’s rooms, the lowborn man she must be marrying, of all people, and Gendry, and _Sansa_. What is she to say to her sister, after so many years, so many _tears,_ so much pain they’ve both endured alone when they should have been together?

 _Together._ That stokes her courage, and she grits her teeth, spurring her horse to continue through, and before long she sees guards on the south wall of Winterfell, and though the gates are open and drawbridge is down, they still call out _Whoa,_ as if they were boys at play, not men at work, and then Arya realizes despite her dreams, Winterfell is still a shadow of itself; there are no trumpets, there is no formality. There will be no men meeting her, there will be no conversation aside from this one, distant and aloof and full of distrust on either side. _Fine, then. Fine. I’ve no fear now._

“Tell the Lady Stark I’ve a wedding gift for her.” She says, lifting her chin. “The best I believe she can receive.”

“Oh aye, and who are you, littl’un, to give the Lady of the North so fine a wedding gift?”

His lip doubles her courage, and so Arya forfeits all; she rips her hood back and wrenches Needle from her waist, stabbing its point towards the wet, nasty clouds above them. When she speaks, she bellows.

“Tell the Lady Sansa I’ve brought a better Needle for her sewing circles, the one belonging to her only sister, Arya Stark. Now see me through else I give you real reason to cry _Whoa._ ” And she whisks Needle through the air with more bravado than necessary, but, fancy weddings call for fancy times. The guards exchange a brief, harried conversation high above her, and her neck hurts from the strain of glaring up at them. Finally they nod to one another and look back at her.

“My Lady, our apologies, Lady Sansa said we should look out for you, given the wolf,” and then he’s gone, most likely running along the wall and to the keep to tell her sister of her arrival.

“Wolf,” she says, more to herself, perhaps some to Winterfell itself, just to let it know that another Stark, another wolf, has come home. The other man waves her through and she sheathes Needle, clucks again to the pony, spurs on the garron as she enters the yard. It’s a beehive of activity, a beautiful swarm of voices, curses and laughter, of hammering and horses whickering, doors slamming and _life._ She smiles, enjoying the sights, the smells, the sounds of home, the mingling of happiness and sorrow. Happiness to be here, finally, sorrow that it took so long.

“Arya?” The sound of her name on someone else’s tongue is foreign to her and she frowns, glancing around, wondering who spoke it, knowing the moment her eyes latch onto the man. He has just come from his smithy right beside the south gate, and he is close to her, not two strides away. Gendry has a small pile of metal in his hands, cradling them to his chest so as not to drop them, but he does, his hands simply falling to his sides, and as they fall to the muddy snow she sees they are the heads of wolves, direwolves, and they fall with a clatter. He is exactly as her dreams shaped him; black of hair, blue of eye, broad of back. It takes her a few moments but then she smiles, shakes her head. Arya has dreamed him. She has smelled him. She has watched him sleep and watched him labor, seen him toss and turn and moan in bed, never happy, always sad. She knows what that’s like.

“You,” Arya says, because that’s all her brain allows for, before tears fall down her face, unbidden but unstoppable. “No,” she whispers, bowing her head and wiping at her cheeks, for that’s not at all how she wants to be seen when she comes home. Strong, laughing, proud, that’s what she imagined, some part of her, not this crying, weak hearted woman. She swings her leg over her horse’s neck, as if she would dismount, but then she sits there, for the first time in her life as a lady would sit a horse, waiting for a squire’s aid. He steps forward, and for her at least the sounds and bustle around them fade to nothingness, and she can’t even feel the cold rain on her anymore, there is only his eyes that look on her with such intensity she cannot look away. Her heart races but he moves ever slow to close the distance between them, narrow as it may be, and finally he is before her, a hand lifted to rest on her garron’s shoulder, another to grip the edge of her saddle seat.

“Arya,” he says again, and she nods, smiling though her cheeks are still wet from tears, from the rain, from everything.

“Yes,” she says.

“Do you remember me?” He asks and she shakes her head, to which he frowns.

“I dream of you,” she corrects, and there is a smile that grows on his mouth, small at first but then a full-fledged grin, and the sight of it there pulls her own lips into a grin of her own. He moves his hands from horse and saddle to her hips, stepping closer until his chest is nearly against her knees, and she feels each individual fingertip press into her when he grips her tight and hoists her up slightly before lowering her to the ground. Her eyes follow his as she moves from above him to below, short as she is, and his do the same until his head is bowed over her and hers is tilted up. _He is going to kiss me,_ she thinks wildly _. I should slap him if he tries it,_ though the thought of such a thing has fed her on her journey almost as much as the bread. She rests a hand on his upper arm, feeling the warmth of him, and her eyes nearly close at the headiness of it.

“Your hair is long,” he says, barely above a whisper, and she smiles, about to speak.

“ _Arya!”_ It is Sansa’s voice, she knows it even after all this time, but before she has a chance to react her horse rears up behind her, whinnying in terror, and Gendry steps backwards, pulling her against him and twisting so his back is to the horse, and he is between it and her. His hand cradles the back of her head, his other arm around her waist, and her face is pressed against his chest. He smells of fire and sweat and honest work, of the leather of his jerkin and the wiry scent of well-worn wool, and now she truly does close her eyes.

“Nymeria,” he says by way of explanation for her horse’s antics, and then they are both nearly bowled over by the exuberance of one very enthusiastic wolf. He releases her and her eyes open, and she can feel the absence of him, the sudden chill to be so separated, but she flings her arms around Nymeria’s neck as the creature whines and keens, holding still for her long lost other half.

“Arya,” Sansa repeats, sounding breathless, sounding close, and Arya freezes a moment, unwinding her arms from around her wolf, slowly standing upright and turning to face her sister.

She is beautiful as ever, Tully from head to toe, from hair to eyes and the sparkle of the river in that blue. And tall, too, so that when Sansa snares her little sister in a hug, she feels as if she is being embraced by their mother.

“Oh Sansa,” she whispers, voice cracking like a dam before the sobs come crashing down, and she wraps her arms around her sister’s waist, as their ribs expand in near unison, for both of them cry as nakedly as the other. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. For everything, for mother, for father. I saw you there, when it happened, and then the world ended. I’m so sorry,” she says through her tears.

“I’m sorry too,” Sansa says. “I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry you’ve been gone so long. And I am so _happy_ you’re _home_. I knew you’d come, I knew it when your wolf came to us that you were alive, that you’d come back. I _knew_ it,” she says fiercely, ever the wolf though Arya always thought her more a dove.

“I’m never leaving again,” Arya says, and she twists her head in her sister’s arms, opening her eyes, and Gendry is still there, arms folded across his chest, and he looks at her as if he has been this entire time. “Ever,” she says, and he smiles, nodding his approval.

 

 She is like a lick of flame, as active and frenetic as he remembers her, and she lights up Winterfell like a thousand torches. She is all smiles, though she and Sandor have a tense reunion, and while Gendry can tell she is confused and taken aback by the upcoming wedding, Arya lets it lie for the present, and the feast that night is free of conflict and confrontation. She sits on Sansa’s right and the two sisters are like two sides of one coin, dark and amber, gray eyes and blue, sun-kissed skin of Essos and lily white skin of the North. She insists that he sit on the dais with them though he is silent for most of it as Sansa and Arya talk of their pasts, and Arya sheds tears again to know that she has missed Jon by a matter of days.

“I think I saw him, then,” she says sadly, and mentions a large boat heading downriver towards White Harbor, men in black on deck, and then Sam, the new maester, shares with her news of Jon and where he heads and when Arya asks why and is told, she throws her head back and laughs through her tears, her thick braid sliding off her shoulder to hang down. Gendry wants to wrap his fist in it and pull her near, but he restrains himself, busies himself with his cup of wine.

“Somehow it’s fitting that it all traces back to Rickon. There was word of him and some woman in White Harbor. There were men from King’s Landing who wanted them and were willing to pay for information.”

Everyone stills a moment, and Sansa frowns. “Are they still there? We caught two more envoys here, they had captured Nymeria too,” she adds, but at the look on Arya’s face she hurries on, hasty to avoid an explosion of rage. “We executed them.”

“Good. I did the same with the two in White Harbor,” Arya says lightly, spearing her lamb with her fork, pushing it off the tines to the floor behind her where Nymeria lies, ever faithful. That makes Sandor laugh. Arya leans over her plate to look down the table at him, and he grins.

“I swung the sword myself on those cunts,” he says. “If we find any others I reckon we’ll be forced to share the pleasure,” he says, and after a moment, Sansa glancing between the two like a nervous mediator, Arya laughs with him.

The night is a long one for there is much to discuss, but eventually the sisters rise as one when their conversation turns more tender and personal, and they excuse themselves with no false pretenses.

“We’d finish our discussion in private,” Sansa says, pulling Arya’s hand into her arm the way Sandor escorts her through the halls, though Arya grabs the flagon of wine on the table with a grin. “Come see father’s chambers with me, and tell me what you think of my changes,” and just like that, the two Starks withdraw, and the great hall seems dimmer and colder without them.

Gendry sighs, and he and Sam scoot down a chair as Sandor does the same, and the three unlikely friends call for more wine, and they drink to Arya’s return, to Sandor’s marriage, to maester Sam staying on in Winterfell. Since their upcoming marriage was announced, something seems to have broken free in Sandor, and Gendry finds he is an easier man to talk with now. Still gruff, still silent for the most part, but he listens and he nods, gives advice and offers answers with far more ease. And maester Tarly loses his own shyness well enough when the wine flows, and before long the three men sit as if they are lords of the North, snorting with laughter when Sam knocks his cup over and when Gendry staggers somewhat after standing to retire for the night.

“Will her wolf leave you now she’s here?” Sandor asks him as he walks past. Gendry laughs with a shrug, but as he takes the stairs towards his chambers, the idea of sleeping alone is a sorry one, and he wishes he brought wine with him, as Arya did. _Gods, she’ll want her chambers back,_ he thinks with another wash of sadness. He will have to ask Sansa if there is room for him elsewhere. He rounds a corner and stops in his tracks, hanging back as he sees Sansa and Arya approaching, heads bent together.

“Believe me, I have seen it. In his eyes when he speaks of you, or when you’re mentioned. He chose your rooms, of all places,” Sansa says, and Gendry wants to groan he is so embarrassed. He _knew_ Sansa could tell, though she was ever too much a lady to say it. “Then you tell me you dream of him while lying next to him, and then your wolf, your very own familiar, cannot seem to part herself from him. You tell me what that all sounds like.”

“I don’t know, Sansa,” Arya says, and Gendry peers around the corner to see her face. She bites her lip, looks conflicted.

“Love, you goose. It’s clear as day. You should have seen the two of you in the yard, arms about each other.” Sansa sighs luxuriously, and Arya laughs, nudging her sister’s shoulder with her own. _They look like girls though they are grown women, one of them Lady of this castle._

“I confess it was- Oh, gods, it was so good to see him. I could hardly tear myself away from him.”

“See? You love him, I knew it.”

“Oh stop it,” Arya snaps, and Gendry’s mouth twists to hear her argue. It is nothing he did not expect, but it still does him no favors to hear. He is about to turn and walk away, to sleep in the smithy perhaps, where it’s never truly cold, no matter how long the fire has been out, but her voice stops him, and he takes a step closer, thankful for the shadows that hide him. “Just- just don’t tell him. I’ll do it, when the time is right,” she says, voice thin and shy like a girl’s from her confession, and Gendry exhales a grin, bowing his head.

“Ah. I think you already did, sister,” Sansa says, and he turns his head to the left and sees Sansa, wreathed in light from a nearby sconce of torchlight, looking directly at him. “I’m feeling so tired, Arya. Forgive me if I leave you here,” she says, nodding her head to his – no, Arya’s – chamber door.

Sansa drifts past him, away from her chambers towards the hall, likely in search of Sandor, and when she passes him she gives him a coy little smile. “You’re welcome,” she murmurs, and he stares after her, incredulous. But then he remembers where he is, who is here with him, and he turns, slowly, half expecting her to pull that thin little blade on him, maybe slit his throat where he stands for daring to know her feelings.

“You heard,” she says, and he steps towards her, nodding his head. He sees Sandor approach his mad horse this way, sometimes, and figures he will put it to good use. Gendry lifts his hands, palms towards her, surrendering, submitting, showing he means no harm. She glances down to his hands and smirks.

“Aye, but remember I’m unarmed, see.” He lifts his hands to chest height and tries on a smile to gauge its reaction. She leans against her closed door and crosses her arms over her chest, watching him with an amused expression.

“I’m unarmed as well.”

“No you’re not. You never are,” he whispers, standing in front of her. His hands ache with the memory of her hips in their grasp. He studies her face, noting how it’s changed with time but how so much has stayed the same. Her features have grown into her long face, and now it’s artful, graceful, more like a lady’s than she’d ever want to admit.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” she says, hushed, staring at his chest, arms still folded. He steps closer, bracing his hands on the door frame on either side of her, for want of _something_ to take hold of.

“You are armed to the teeth, Arya; with your eyes and your mouth. Your wit and your temper and your laughter. How you walk, like a wolf or a cat, some otherworldly thing. How you haunt me from a world away, from across a sea I’ve never even seen. I am no match for weapons such as those. I am at your mercy,” he says, bowing his head. He does not close his eyes and neither does she, but instead they watch each other as he comes ever nearer, and he sees in his periphery that her mouth is parted, and he wants nothing more but to taste that weapon and feel what true ruination is like coming from her. His lips just brush against hers when he hears a click, and she falls away from him, stepping backwards into her chamber. He hangs there, still holding onto the door frame, head dropping forward as he sighs out his frustration.

“Why did you pick these rooms?” she asks, and when he looks up she’s sitting on her bed undoing her braid, fingers quick and nimble though she looks at him.

“Because they were yours,” he admits, and that makes her smile, which in turns makes his heart beat faster. He lets go of the doorframe, leaning instead against it with his arms folded across his chest.

“They’re not as warm as I remember them,” she says with a shiver, glancing around, and he smiles, looking down a minute before making a decision.

“Then let me warm them for you,” he says, and her mouth drops open as he steps into the room, her shoulders drooping when she sees he does not come in for her but to crouch before her fireplace, dropping more wood into the embers, stoking them with the poker until they rise up and his face feels the heat of flames. Satisfied, he stands and turns, finds her leaning against the foot of her bed; she has crept closer to him while his back was turned, and it makes him smile. “There. Are you cold, still?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I think I’ve been cold my entire life.”

“I hate to hear it,” he murmurs, eyes falling to her fingers as they comb through her loose hair, and it’s a strange sight, to see her face framed with such tresses. He walks towards her, all of three steps, and lifts a lock of her hair between finger and thumb, both them watching his hand. “You grew your hair out. I wondered,” he starts, and then he chuckles. “I often wondered about you,” he confesses in a whisper.

“I dreamed of you every night, Gendry,” she says. “I watched you sleep. I don’t - don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone anymore.” He lifts his gaze from her hair to her eyes, finding them on him already, and it sends a chill ghosting down his spine. _She is really here. These are her eyes, this is her standing in front me. This is no wolf, no haunting._

“How could I leave someone I love?” he says truthfully, and she smiles, grasping his jerkin with a strong little fist, pulling him down to her as she leans back onto her bed. And without quite knowing how, her arms are around him and he’s above her on his elbows, his mouth on hers for the very first time, her tongue tasting of wine as his surely does.

 The fire cracks and snaps, the only sound to be heard above breathless sighs and moans as he kisses her, kisses her, kisses her. Here, in this room that once felt more a crypt than a bed chamber, the air is now full of how she tastes, how her hair feels against his cheek when he is eventually rolled onto his back and she is above him. Later, long after the fire quiets down and he has mapped her body in its entirety with his hands and his mouth, after she has wrested from him more happiness than he knew he had, he marvels over how she fits perfectly against him, despairs that it took so long to find that out.

“Say you’ll stay,” she says in the dark in some hour before dawn. He is propped up on pillows and she rests her head on the pad of his chest, her fingers splayed out across his stomach. He knows what she means, he knows what she asks, and he smiles. He’d no sooner leave her than sprout wings and fly.

“As my lady commands,” he whispers with a grin, and she laughs.

“But I don’t want to be ‘your lady’,” she says after a few minutes pass by, her breath a warm gust against his bare chest. His fingertips drift up and down her arm as he stares at the dying fire, and he feels so _whole_ now.

“No. No, I don’t want that, either. I never did.”

“What would I be, then?” She asks, musing, and he sighs deeply, happily, finding her chin with his fingers, lifting her face so he can kiss her. He will never tire of kissing her.

“Just mine,” he says, and she hums her approval into his mouth as she kisses him back, and with that alone Gendry knows he will find no sleep tonight, not in this bed of hers.

 _Of ours_.


	19. Chapter 19

Though they are widely thought to be a godless people on a godless island, the men and women of Skagos keep the old gods; Shireen’s faith of the seven has no home here, but because she was never one for religion and because she finds heart trees hauntingly beautiful she does not mind. Weirwoods grow here even amongst the rocks and black sand, the salty grasses and hard, bitter earth. They are spindly, spidery trees but are all the stronger from the struggle to survive, and it is before such a tree in the Kingshouse godswood that Rickon and she now stand facing each other, hands clasped and bound with a soft, broken in leather strap, the setting sun casting long shadows.

He cuts a formidably handsome figure in a black fitted leather jerkin, the long sleeves of his white shirt contrasting with it, the only decadence being his cloak of Stark colors, gray and white, a direwolf embroidered in the center with silver thread. The dusky auburn of his hair stands out in this blustery, wintery wood, and she can see how his eagerness and happiness light up the green of his eyes. She wears, upon his pleading insistence, the midnight blue dress, its skirts split up the center, which had so dazzled him back in Greywater Watch. Beneath she wears black breeches and her black boots as she did back then, much to his delight, but it’s his cloak that most excites _her_.

It has been a month since she asked him to marry her, for it has taken this long for that marriage cloak to be made, and it has been a month of excitement. Each evening after he makes love to her (and oh, how his ardor has stoked after the news and acceptance of her pregnancy) but before they sleep, Rickon lays a hand on her belly, sometimes scoots down the bed to kiss her below her navel, to lay his head there as if he could hear or feel something, even this early when the babe is no bigger than a pebble. She cards her fingers through his hair and gazes up at the ceiling, or at the crown of his head as he marvels over it all, and indeed, she marvels over it as well, so wonderfully rich as her life has become. She cannot, still does not, believe her luck in finding him, in being swept up in the sea that is Rickon, in loving him and being loved back.

Shireen knows she rocked him with her reveal, knows that it took him by surprise, no, by shock and fear, but he mastered himself quickly enough, and has looked at her this past month with the same vivid brightness that he does now. It is a wolfish green gaze, and if she thought Rickon had been protective before, impending fatherhood has ignited in him a near divine devotion, and she feels more adored than ever before in her life, feels more fire for him now than even that first morning in The Barking Seal when they crashed into one another for the first time. This babe between them –  _literally,_  she thinks, glancing down at her stomach as Tor rumbles on about honor for hosting their wedding – has cleaved them together in a far more intense way than she had ever before understood. When she looks back up to Rickon she sees he has been looking at her belly as well, and when he drags his gaze up to hers, he smiles so slowly, so darkly rich, that it makes her toes curl in her boots. They have come together and created something completely unique and individual, proof of their love, and not a man or woman in the world can do the same. Only Rickon and she, only they can do it, and did.

Tor clears his throat and they both startle in unison, turning their heads as one to regard him. He rolls his eyes at their distracted state and the cluster of their guests in the godswood titter with laughter. Half of them are already drunk and have been for days, specifically House Crowl, who have traveled clear across the isle for this occasion, and so arrived the earliest, all the better to glut themselves at Tor’s table, to make such a trip worth it. Rickon and Shireen join them in their laughter, however sober they themselves might be, because this is a far too joyous occasion to be somber.

Tor nods to Rickon who returns the gesture, and Lord Magnar unbinds their hands before her new husband sweeps the luxuriously thick cloak from his shoulders, so heavy from fine weave and fabric, from its ermine trim that it requires no clasp to stay put. Shireen watches him step towards her, and though they are before a heart tree, though they are before half a hundred men and women she can at best call strangers, there’s a fire inside her, from heart to belly, at the sight of him advancing. He gives the cloak a light shake and snap before swinging it over her shoulders, his arms a circle around her as he adjusts it so the edges of it drape down over her breasts.  The fur trim brushes against her throat and she suppresses a shiver at the tickling, teasing touch; it makes her think of his hands, his fingers on her skin.

“Let it be known that Shireen of House Baratheon and Rickon of House Stark are now one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder,” Tor says, chest puffing with pride to say the words. The wind picks up and sends snow gusting from the heart tree’s branches and those of the pines and hearty island trees surrounding the weirwood, and the fat flakes look like small white feathers as they fall in silence all around them.  _It looks like a dream and it couldn’t be more perfect._

“With this kiss I pledge my love,” Rickon murmurs, and he has eyes for none but her as he comes even closer, and the air seems to crackle between them, as if they set it on fire. He cups her face in his hands and her eyes slide shut, though she would commit every second of this day to memory, and she lifts her hand to grasp his wrists, as if afraid his hands would leave her. “I pledge my everything to you,” he says in a hushed whisper, his words warm against her lips as he speaks them just before they kiss. The Skagosi around them erupt in whoops and applause. He pulls her tight to him, and it is done.

They are wed.

 

 

Blessedly the wet weather has left, and while clouds breeze by high overhead, they are none of them the low, dark gray that promise storms and ice and misery, but the fatter, lazier kind, clustered together like sheep, and intermittently the sun is permitted a view of Sansa and Sandor standing before the heart tree, and she almost feels as if she stands there on a summer’s morning, so bright and vivid the weather has turned.  _Finally the gods see me; finally they hear me,_  she thinks.  _They sent him to me and brought us home, and have let me keep him, and now they let the sun smile down on us._

He is in some of the finest attire she has ever before seen on him, a thick velvet doublet of green embroidered with thread the color of a newborn fawn, the caps of its shoulders hanging out slightly over sleeves that come just to his wrists. She is used to him in frayed jerkins and half-laced linen shirts, and while she wouldn’t care a whit if he wore muddy breeches and a torn up tunic, she cannot help but smile to see him so richly dressed. He muttered about it enough in the days leading up to this one, called himself a maid’s pony to be outfitted in ribbons and silks, but now he stands still and with his chin up, no fidgets to suggest discomfort, no glances left and right as if he does not belong. His eyes are cast downward to hers, a warm sea of gray, and she looks back, feeling for all in the world as if she could explode into a thousand birds, a hundred thousand little birds that would take to the sky and fly into the sun, she is that weightless, that happy, full of joy.

It is silent here save for the snow shrikes, and their calls are to Sansa more lovely and more sacred than the tolling of the bells in King’s Landing, and she is all the happier for their interruptions as Arya steps from Gendry’s side, a silk sash in her hands. It is a silvery gray, all the better to match the Stark cloak that rests on Sansa’s shoulders; it is heavy from thread and several layers of velvet, of rabbit fur and  _honor_  most of all. The only other time she wore a marriage cloak it was weighted with misery and fear, resigned fates and humiliation. The weight of  _this_  cloak, however, is a very fine thing indeed.

Arya moves to stand with her back to the heart tree so she may face the newlyweds and the small knot of friends who join them. It is a small, small wedding, though there are nearly 200 guests within the castle walls; only Gendry and Brienne and the rest of the brotherhood who escorted her home. The rest of the guests will likely sleep late today, judging by how late into the night the feasting went last night, as was Arya and Gendry’s plan. Gods know they have spent enough time holed up together to plan another storming of King’s Landing, but then, Sansa is not such a fool to think that was how they spent  _all_  their time. So for now they have silence and privacy as Arya lightly binds their clasped hands with the sash.

“I Sandor of House Clegane pledge my life and my love to you, Sansa of House Stark. I vow to protect and honor you for all of my days as your husband,” he says gruffly, voice a deep roll of thunder in the otherwise thick quiet of the wood. It sounds more the pledge of a sworn shield than husband, but it is his way and for that she loves it, would have it spoken no other way. “This I swear before the old gods and the new. But mostly the old,” he says before clearing his throat with a small grin, and Gendry laughs before receiving a hissed  _shush_  from Brienne. But Sansa laughs too; they neither of them hold much stock with the seven, anymore, and besides she is delighted to find him at ease enough to crack jokes in front of the rest.

“I Sansa of House Stark do pledge my life and my love to you, Sandor of House Clegane. I will forever be loyal in heart and soul to you and to our union. This I swear before the old gods.  _Just_  the old gods,” she says lightly, and he nods with approval, his grin a touch more sly this time around. Arya steps in and unbinds their hands, taking the sash with her to return to Gendry’s side, and when their hands are free, Sandor tugs Sansa’s fingers, lightly, gently towards him and she steps once, twice towards him, drifting forward on a current of love and want. There is a charge of tension at this seemingly innocuous gesture, but he pulls her like this to him in the evenings when they wear nothing but candlelight, when he sits on their bed and he beckons her join him.

“Come, little bird, offer me your protection,” he rumbles, and she does as he bids, pulling the cloak with her right hand off her shoulders, hefting the lovely thing as she spreads it out. It is still winter, but her dress is thick brocade and warm without the cloak, a cream color with small birds embroidered into it with shimmering rose colored thread. Arya, however oblivious and uninterested in clothing, had been the one to pick out the color of thread.  _For your hair,_  she said, playing with a lock of it, smiling fondly before letting the hair fall back to her shoulder.  _You’ll look a living, breathing heart tree,_  she said, and now without the cloak to cover it up she almost feels as one.

She is about to lift the cloak high enough to reach his shoulders when he drops to one knee before her in the snow. Sandor bows his head and there is something deeply reverential about it, so much so she very nearly feels lightheaded with so unabashed a sign of devotion and love from him in front of so many people. Sandor’s love is a private thing, no less ardent or passionate from it, but still, it is something he reserves for her when they are alone, when none other can see it or sully it.  _He would worship me as a queen,_  she thinks, for he has said as much while he moves above her, hands in her hair and mouth over hers, and suddenly she wishes they were alone, that she could cast aside propriety and leap upon him.

“I pledge my love and the protection of my House and so name you Sandor of House Stark, here before the heart tree and the old gods,” she murmurs as she steps directly in front of him, his bowed head at the height of her hips, draping the cloak over his broad shoulders, smoothing the fabric before resting a hand on the side of his face. “My love,” she whispers, and Sandor looks up at her from there on the ground, his half scarred face otherwise unlined from worry or anger, all smooth from a peace that has settled on him as sure as she settled the cloak on his back. He grasps her by the waist as he rises and pulls her towards him, hips coming together, and kisses her so deeply that if it were witnessed by a septon, he’d surely blush.

“Sandor and Sansa of House Stark,” murmurs Arya, though Sansa can barely register the words through the sudden drunken haze of lust she finds herself in.

“There, my lady wife,” he gruffs when their kiss breaks. “It’s done,” he says, and without another word Sandor sweeps her into his arms and stalks off towards the castle, a small chorus of whistles and laughter in their wake. “Bugger the bedding ritual. I’m not waiting for any fucking feast.”

 

“If you keep touching me there, everyone is going to guess I’m with child, and then the feast will  _never_  end,” she murmurs in his ear. Shireen talks of keeping his hands off of her, but then she is currently in his lap at the head table, and it is her very own laughter that makes her voice high and light and merry, so he does not take it as a sincere chastisement. But it _is_ true; Rickon finds that he cannot keep his hands from her belly, where it is still flat despite her daily inspections in their chamber mirror. It is flat but  _he knows_  what hides in there, a son or a daughter, and he is just drunk enough to want to share the knowledge with the entire hall, though no one would hear him over the music and laughter and dancing and shouting, the clatter of fork and knife to plate, the slap of cups and goblets to salt-toughened wood.

So instead he slides his right hand from her belly over her hip to the small of her back and tucks her in closer to him, where she rests her weight against his left shoulder. She takes up his cup of wine and tips it against his lower lip and he grins, eyes closing as he opens his mouth and lets her pour it in. This earns them both a great bellow of laughter from Tor, and Rickon is crowned the Kitten King for so meekly drinking from the hand of his wife, and he cannot help but laugh at himself for how ridiculous a title it sounds.

It is a maddeningly rowdy affair, Houses Crowl and Stane having come out in full forces, a few lower lords and ladies there to pay homage and even a few tables of smallfolk loyal to Kingshouse from the treeline below sit with them all and sup and drink. There are pitchers and pitchers of ale and wine on every table, and there is not a single serving girl who enters without carrying at least one massive tray of food. There are buns and rolls, clams and fish and pheasant and venison, potatoes and parsnips and leeks and mushrooms, the smell of food and drink filling the fire-warmed air. For every other man there seems to a serving girl in his arms, much as his new lady wife sits in his, though the activities below the high table are far more scandalous than a hand around the waist, and at one point Osha stands and flings a wooden serving spoon clear across the room, knocking Halsten Crowl cleanly in the head when he tries pulling one girl’s breast from her dress.

“Do it again and I’ll cut your hand off,” Osha says with a laugh. Halsten’s brother Halvard roars with laughter, and for the rest of the evening calls her Osha Spoonspear, and uses her utensil to whack his brother whenever he pleases.

 Hours later, the drunkenness has spread like wildfire, and even Osha is kissing Tor whenever he comes in for her attention, and they dance with reckless abandon amidst their guests. Rickon thinks briefly of his trueborn lady mother and lord father, and knows this is a sight he would never see if the world had been different. Tor spins her in and out as if he were a man of 20 and not well into his 60s, and she shrieks with laughter when the song ends and he hefts her like a sack of flour over his shoulder, spinning her still.

“I could do that to you,” Rickon says, slouched in his chair, Shireen still in his arms. She has had only a cup or two of wine, claiming it sits ill with her, though it slackens her posture and flushes her cheeks enough, and she reclines with easy confidence, her legs over one arm of his chair as she ensconces her back in the crook of space between his arm and his side, his fingers of that hand buried in her hair, plucking at shells, tracing the ropes of black braids. They have danced but twice, laughing as Rickon tripped over his own feet from the wine, but she has claimed fatigue, likely from the babe in her belly, and so instead they sit, perfectly content to watch their guests and the Lord and Lady Magnar make riotous, happy fools of themselves.

“You do it and I’ll slap you silly, Kitten King,” she says, squealing when he pinches her thigh just below her arse, swatting his hand away. He laughs, lifting his hand to her face to draw her in for a kiss. Rickon gazes at her happily and she returns his smile, though her eyes are heavy. Her arm is heavy too, around his shoulder, and he frowns.

“You’re tired, aren’t you,” he says more than asks, and she nods.

“I am, a little. But this is so much fun, even just as an observer. Have you ever seen such a party?” Rickon raises his eyebrows.

“Where do you think I got the ink on my skin? Though that was down on the black beaches in the midst of a ring of bonfires. If we linger, I’m sure someone will put beautiful lines of purple and black upon you. If I let them,” he says darkly, and Shireen laughs, shaking her head.

“No, thank you, keep them away from me,” she says, leaning her head against his.

“My pleasure,” he says, turning his face towards hers, kissing her greyscale before lifting his cup to his lips. Rickon drains it, and when he hears her yawn he makes a decision for them both. “I’m taking you to bed now, wife, and I’ll brook no argument.” He burps before he can help himself, hiccups as well, and while she wrinkles her nose at this barbarism, they both laugh.

“You’d better, before you drink so much you embarrass yourself.”

“Aye, before I drink so much I cannot fight them off during the bedding ritual,” he says, for that is a custom that has always sat ill with him. “But Tor knows you’re with child and he’ll let no one get too close to you. He’ll protect you.”

Shireen bites her lips, hesitating, and Rickon rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“He is not my father but as much a father figure as I have, and he’ll not take liberties with you, Shireen. He knows how dear you are to me. Wife of Rickon is one thing, mother of my child is another. I told him to kill anyone who tries to strip you bare. And mind they’re careful of that dress,” he says, earning a grin from her as he slides his fingers down the silk-soft satin of her sleeve before grasping her forearm inside the belled out cuff of it. _This gorgeous, damnable dress._ “Are you ready?”

“Yes, husband, I am ready,” she whispers in return, and when she slides from his lap to her feet, when Rickon heaves himself up and wraps an arm around her shoulders in front of their company, there is a roar of laughter and several strings of filthy commentary. Shireen and he glance to one another, shaking their heads, both of them blushing as if they were virgin children and not lovers well accustomed with one another.

“Here I am, you fool,” Osha grins as she traipses towards him, looking the finest he’s seen her in his life, hair twisted and coiled and glossy from oils, a gown of deep eggplant hugging the caps of her shoulders and showing off her pale complexion despite her years of travel. Rickon smiles to see her, extends his free arm towards her, allowing both of the women he loves to half prop him up. “Ah, my drunken little lord, I’ll keep these randy women away from you. Shireen told me to kill any whore who sets her hands on your bare flesh,” and Rickon laughs at his lady wife’s smug expression when Osha says it.

 

Sandor takes his time with Sansa on this day, this of all days, when he becomes not only a husband but a lord and a Stark as well. He would quake if he thought of being potentially a Warden of any part of this shit realm, if he did not constantly remind himself that _she_ will be Warden when that time comes, she is the Lady here, and he is only her shadow, the lucky darkness in the shape of a man who follows her, who now calls himself her husband. _Husband,_ he thinks as she dozes, belly down on the featherbed, her cheek against the mattress and face towards him as she drowses. There is only a sheet covering them, as warmed as they are from their activities, from the fire in the hearth and the weakening sunlight streaming in, illuminating her backside like the snow that covers the world outside. _Wife,_ he smiles to himself, so utterly taken away by the thought, the reality, the sweetness. He is on his side, head propped up with a hand, and the gnarl of scars is nothing today, though it presses so firmly against his palm, because of this lovely view, because of this lovely day.

Sandor lifts his free hand and it hovers, just so, by her temple, hesitant even after vows and lordship, after casting away his name and the forgotten life down south. _She’s too perfect for me, for my touch,_ he thinks, but she always cries his name so sweetly, always comes undone so wonderfully for him, only ever sobs out her fears to him, never hesitates to tell him her secrets; all of these things are only for him. So he sighs and he gives in as always, and drags his fingertips along the drape of auburn that half covers her face, cherishing its weight up to the point where her hair meets her shoulder, and then he flattens his hand, sweeping it down her shoulder blade and the slope of her back to where it dips and then crests back up to the swell of her arse and down again to her thigh. His arm is fully extended now and he has run out of track, so he simply runs his hand back up again, and when he reaches her upper back, half pleased that he disturbs the fall of her hair so that it tousles and tumbles from her shoulder, she murmurs his name; his _new_ name.

“Husband,” she sighs, and his forehead creases with the wonder of it. He is slack jawed, stuck in the thrum of emotion that hovers between sweet misery and painful delight before he remembers himself.

“Wife,” he whispers, unable to be so distant with his touches now, and he leans over to kiss the center of her back, and then she hums, turning from her belly to her back, giving him everything. Her hands are in his hair, and he closes his eyes when they kiss, because this is too beautiful, because if this is how he lives out the rest of his days, he will die a happy, exhausted man, and that is a fate he has never before afforded himself.

 

The candlelight is low, the fire is nearly nothing, but Rickon is the singular source of heat for her, as he has always been, ever since the kingsroad, so much so that she feels it even through the greyscale pressed to his bare chest. Despite her exhaustion, he was ever-tempting with his looks and his kisses, his tongue and his fingers, his never ending hunger, though in the end she did the majority of the work on top of him. He is snoring now, on his back, a naked tangle of legs askew amidst blanket and furs, an arm half hanging off the bed, the other still draped over her shoulders. Even in his stupor he holds her close, and in spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Shireen cannot sleep, simply lays in bed on her side, her chest and sex pressed against him, leg hitched over his thighs as she stares at the tapestries on the far wall, thinking of how his heart beats beneath her, how there will be another heartbeat inside her soon. She mimics what Rickon does so often now and sweeps her hand down and off his chest to press her own fingers to her stomach. She wonders at it, wonders of it, wonders if it’s a boy or a girl, hopes it’s safe and healthy, tamps down the fear of greyscale afflicting her child. Her hand presses into her belly, harder, she yearns so for more confirmation, knowing she has to wait.

He stirs when her hand leaves him, muttering in his sleep, and she rolls her eyes with a smile. He is needy for touch, seeks her out in his sleep when she rolls from him, or if he rolls from her, reaches out behind his back or calls out in his sleep. _He has lived as lonely a life as I have,_ she thinks, and that is why it does not bother her. His neediness is akin to her greediness, to how she grabs at him in the middle of the night, how she tracks his movement across the hall or the yard or the black sand beach with her hungry eyes. She never had a sister to share joy with, never had a mother who cared enough to creep in her chamber or her tent to give comfort, never had a father who would shun pride or _justice_ as he called it, to flee and remain with her when everything seemed lost.

Only one man did all those things, and his tattooed arm is slung across her, his heart beats beneath her cheek, his child grows inside her. Shireen closes her eyes and smiles, because sleep comes easy now, with those soft and sweet truths to use as her pillow. Rickon twists his neck with a grunt and smacks his lips before sighing _Shireen_ , and she falls asleep with the sweet sound of her name in her ear, shaped by his voice and his love.

 

 “Quit it. No, stop it, I said _stop it,_ ” she laughs, much too drunk to do more than giggle as Gendry grabs her around the waist and slings her back behind him, against one of the dusty old walls of the first keep so that he might pin her there, kiss her there. He is a not _so_ large a man, not like her new goodbrother, but he is wired through and through with muscle, and taller than her besides, so when he does so, she is utterly enveloped, and she is utterly delighted. They have been dancing like this for at least an hour, tackling and tickling and laughing like children. She has not been a child in many, many years, and when he slaps her arm and pinches her cheek, dashing off into some dusty corner, the flagon of wine tipping onto its side as he jostles it, she races after him and wonders if she ever _had_ the chance to be just a child, if the gods are giving her the chance right now.

So when she finally sneaks up on him, which of course she does, because what does he expect, after so many nights of her spilling her tales and her kills and her faces and her fears and her sorrows? He knows her abilities. But when she does, when she tackles him, he is ready for it, because he twists as she wraps her arms around his neck. So now they face each other, smile to smile, and she lets him swing her, round and round and round again, until they are both so dizzy that he staggers and slips, and they both fall to the musty floorboards with a creaking, groaning complaint from the wood beneath them. At first they wheeze and hack from the pressure and impact of the fall, but then they master themselves and lie back together, her head resting on his arm as they stare into the peeps and peeks of sky through the ruined turrets.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he says after many moments. “I thought you were dead, Arya.”

“So did I,” she says, and when he turns his face towards her, she can feel his storm blue eyes on her. Arya takes her time though, before she turns towards him. She was away a long while. She will soak up looks of love all she can before interrupting them, but when she does turn, he is on her like a cloak covers shoulders, rolling her twice until she is on top of him, and his hands cup her face as he says _Arya,_ as he says _Arya, I love you,_ and she squeezes her eyes shut, maybe cries, but she definitely says _I love you_ back. Because when you play at being children, you always tell the truth.

 

“Come back, you fat old thing, I’m not done with you yet,” Osha calls out, watching Tor’s naked arse flex as he answers his door. Someone has taken to pounding on it, which is perhaps why they did not hear how loudly they were enjoying themselves in bed. _I cannot help myself with this old goat,_ she thinks with a grin, flopping onto her back, arms splayed above her head on the mattress. It is a thick, warm bed, as thick and as warm as he is, and she runs a hand down the still-hot length of mattress beside her, where he just stretched out before the knock on the door.

“Carrick, what in fucking hells do you want, a beating for disturbing me with my woman? I hope you don’t think you can fight me for the right of her,” he laughs his booming laugh, and Osha grins, rubbing her face with the palms of her hands, wishing they’d brought water to bed instead of wine. She is thirsty.

“No, my lord,” the guard says, his voice in a panic, and she sits up in bed, smile dying on her lips, naked as the day she was born, knowing all too well what that sort of timbre brings them.  She stares in the direction of their voices, still hidden due to the cavern like turns of the Kingshouse rooms. “I’d not do anything to disturb you, if it weren’t no problem. House Crowl, my lord, they’re killing our own men, my lord!”

“Get in, then, get in,” Tor bellows, and Osha is already out of bed and slipping into Tor’s own tunic when they stride into the front room, the room with the large table and the bigger hearth where she and Rickon discussed parenthood, where she and Shireen talked of love and marriage. She clings to the wall like a spider web behind Carrick when he turns to face his lord, and just as Tor sees her, smiling at her antics, Carrick stabs him in the belly, over and over as he screams “House Stane!” until Tor’s words of surprise and rage are taken over by rivers of blood, and Osha thinks it is perhaps the worst thing she has ever done, watching her husband die, until she remembers there are still people to save, and the thought of losing _them_ crushes her cries of misery, until she thinks of the one name to call out, to scream with all her might and terror as she rips Tor’s sword from the wall, charging into the front room.

 

“My Lady Stark,” Brienne says, standing beneath the high table, stuck between a bow and a curtsey before Sansa during their wedding feast. She wears a dress but more as a man would, all angles and discomfort, and Sansa wishes she would not change who she truly is. The sentiment is half on her lips, but Brienne continues and Sansa would not interrupt her. “I, I would beg leave of you, if you would release me from your service. Release us,” she says, glancing to Jay over her shoulder. “Jaime and me,” she confirms, voice just a whisper weaving its way to her ears, through the music and laughter, as if it had ever truly been a secret, his name, their love, any of it. Sansa wants to laugh; she is happy because she thinks these two can be happy as well, but genuine laughter requires both parties to know joy, and Brienne and Jaime have yet to truly experience that. So she simply nods, smiles and stands to sweep past the dais so that she may embrace Brienne.

“May the gods go with you both,” Sansa says into Brienne’s ear. “And may he love you as well as you love him.” She looks past the tall woman’s arm and catches Jaime’s eye; he lifts his cup to her and bows his head, and at last, there is a smile on his face; Sansa wonders how many years it’s been.

“He does,” Brienne says to her once they part. Her eyes will always seem to be tinged with sorrow, but when she lifts her gaze from the floor to Sansa, there is the shine of hope and as far as declarations go, Sansa knows it’s a heartfelt one.

 

“Rickon! Rickon, _please_ wake up,” she pleads, all fond memory of their wedding feast torn asunder by the screams just outside of their bolted chamber door. She is staring at him, shoving his chest, slapping his cheek, but there is nothing from Rickon. There was one scream in particular that has her terror up, and given the fact that her husband will not wake…

“ _RICKON,”_ she screams, slapping him so hard on the cheek his head swings to the side, and her palm burns from the sting of impact. But with that his eyes roll forward. She expects a drunken stupor but he sits up immediately, pushing her to the side as he shakes his head, shaking out the wine or the dreams or both.

“Osha called me.”

“Shaggydog,” Shireen corrects him, “She called Shaggydog, I heard it, and then the whole world seemed to burst apart,” and there is a still and silent moment amongst the chaos where he _looks_ at her, because he remembers that she knows him, knows of his wolf dreams.

“I came to her. I can still taste the blood,” he murmurs, wiping at his mouth. He starts at the sound of slamming, another scream followed by a declaration for House Stane. Rickon narrows his eyes and snarls. _Still a wolf,_ she thinks, though it is half mad to even consider it, but then she remembers how he shoved her away, a rougher act than any he’s ever done to her. _Well then feed the wolf blood,_ she thinks, and presses a hand to his back.

“Go. Now. GO,” she says, but he shakes his head as he laces up his breeches and shoves his feet into his boots, throwing her dressing gown onto the bed beside her. She shrugs into it hastily and quickly slides her feet into her slippers, and she finds she shakes like a leaf.

“I’ll not leave you here,” Rickon tells her. “Grab your knife and bring your fury, Shireen. Come with me and stay with me. I swore to your father I’d protect you, but I swore to the gods I’d be your husband, and you swore to be my wife. You’d best help me, because we’re not parting, not now.”

 

“Wake up, wake, up,” Gendry says, over and over, despairing that she won’t. His head pounds and the rooms here smell of more must and mold and damp and ice than when he first came to Winterfell, this first keep is so barren, but what concerns him most is that Arya won’t wake up.

“Wolf’s howl, wolf’s stain,” she keeps screaming, and Gendry is beyond frightened, until he takes a leap of faith and slaps her across the face. Arya sits bolt upright, eyes and mouth open as she pants, clawing at her own chest as if to free her heart.

“What the hells,” Gendry says, because he does not know what to do. She has many of these, these night spells, waking up frantic and terrified, lashing out with her hands, reaching for Needle, and he has yet to divine a way to calm her, to reach through to her, but he hazards a guess and presses his hand to her cheek. He is lucky; this seems to break her free from her nightmare, and she collapses against him, sobbing, instead of attacking him. “My brother, Gendry, my brother. Another brother. I cannot keep crying.”

 

Rickon is still half drunk, but his wolf dream guided him to Osha’s rooms, knowing she is still there, where he had half a moment to stare at Tor’s mutilated body, little more than meat for dogs now, before he had to bolt shut their door as a storm of men rushed past. And then there is the ruin of Carrick’s body after Osha had her way with it, but the traitorous guard is the least of their worries. Kingshouse is turned upside down, and Osha, Shireen and Rickon stand in a cluster together, listening as Shaggydog tears men apart, as Magnar men fight those who wish to overtake, others still who wish to take advantage of the turmoil in the wake of Tor’s murder. He should have expected something like this, for this is the way of Skagos. Rickon has only to think of another wedding gone wrong before he wrests free of his wife and his foster mother, turning to look at them once more, a finger against his lips to beg their silence before he wrenches open Tor and Osha’s chamber doors to lay down justiceand rage and revenge _. The North remembers,_ he thinks with a snarl on his lips, and then Shaggydog emerges from a now silent hallway, blood on his muzzle and staining his throat _,_ and together the wolves carry out their vengeance.

It is near dawn and Sansa cannot sleep. She runs her hand over her stomach over and over, wondering if there is something _there_ yet, and when Sandor stills her fingers with his own, pressing them down against her navel, she smiles.

“It will happen yet, little bird, just give it time,” he rumbles, and as always in these private moments with her, whenever they are just the two of them, his voice is more a purr than a growl, and she closes her eyes at the sound of it.

“I know, but…”

“I know, my girl,” he mumbles against her shoulder, and that makes her finally close her eyes. He draw the furs further up her body, because he is tired too – a _t last –_ but also because he knows how warm she likes it. He knows how she likes everything.

 

“I hadthat old man killed and I will kill you too,” Zur, heir of House Stane, once a happy wedding guest, now a traitor, snarls into Rickon’s panting, open mouth, so close he is in his attack. They are alone in the yard, the frigid wind biting into his bare skin; he notices Zur is fully dressed; how thoroughly they planned this treachery. “I will make this hall mine, and will call myself Zur Magnar, no longer Stane.” He has already been stabbed once, in the shoulder, but Rickon has now blocked another attack with the palm of his hand; the blade has gone clean through between the tendons of his first and middle fingers and it is the only thing blocking the attack to his throat, though the point is close enough, and so here they are, locked together in this desperate struggle. Sweat rolls down Zur’s face and Rickon can smell it, still half wolf from his dreams, and it makes his stomach roil through the adrenaline. Rickon has to both thank and curse all that wine he had; thank for lack of pain and curse for lack of reflexes that got him into this stalemate.

“You will not kill me, you fuck,” Rickon grunts, closing his fingers around the hilt of the blade that presses against his palm. He squeezes and spits into Zur’s face, ignoring the pulsing of blood that course down the back of his hand. He thinks instead of murdered Tor. He thinks instead of Osha. He thinks and he prays and he panics for Shireen, for his unborn babe. Rickon squeezes harder, feeling the muscle in his right hand tear from the blade, and he grits his teeth, making a fist, pushing towards Zur’s face. The traitor has brown eyes that are dark with their mission, and Rickon stares into them, fist shaking, breath trapped in his throat. _I have only to kill him, I have only a moment left until Shireen can get away,_ he thinks wildly, hoping she’s taken Fury and rides down the valley to the beach, or has taken the winding stair to hide amongst the smallfolk in the forest, where loyalty still lives on. _I have this one moment to be perfect –_ and then – Rickon’s hand gives way.

There is a singing whistle to the air just before he opens his mouth, maybe to call out, or cry out, and now Zur is falling, tugging his stabbed-through hand with him. Rickon wonders if this is the trick, to pierce a man through and then drag him to the ground screaming in agony, and finally the fucking knife is wrenched from his hand, though that tears another growl of pain from him. He rolls away from his attacker, onto his back where he attempts to sit up, but then he realizes Zur has a dagger through his throat, from one side to the other, and Rickon’s body goes slack from relief.

“Nobody touches my husband,” he hears a woman’s snarl from somewhere to his left, from somewhere up above, and he cranes his neck this way and that, trying to find her. Between the wine and the blood loss, Rickon feels naught, but he smiles just the same to hear her, to feel the ferocity of her love, and then her hands are on him, her face above his, spattered with blood, and finally he can sleep, now, in her arms.

 

“It was a wonderful wedding,” Sansa sighs. She has already broken her fast and bathed before the fire, has watched as her lord husband watched _her_ during both activities. Now they are in the very chairs where he forsook his name and swore his vows to her, the fire licking his left side, her right. “But we have a host of friends and loved ones to attend to now,” she says. “They’ll want entertainment, a hunt maybe, a turn at swordplay? Sandor shrugs.

“You made me a Stark,” he grins, “but you did not make me a host, not unless you mean me to host you here.” His hands drop to his thighs, his gaze as well before it lifts to her again, and Sansa laughs, shaking her head she stares at the ceiling.

“You think I will fall for that?” She dips her chin to shake her head at him again. He shrugs.

“You fell for marrying me. Why can’t a man hope for more?”

 

“Rickon. Rickon. Sh- Shaggy? Shaggydog?” She does not know what to call him, does not know to what he will answer, but when Osha limps over, she simply dumps a pitcher of cold seawater onto Rickon’s face, and _then_ he sputters, he gags, and finally turns his head to retch salt water, wine, and a little food onto the floor beside the makeshift pallet he lies on; they are in the great hall with the remaining loyal men of Magnar, half of them tending to the injured or dead. Tor lies dead on the head table; Carrick and the entirety of House Stane have been thrown over the watch tower bridge. Osha is so bone weary but her grief fuels her, and she shuffles from table to table, tending to others, stopping frequently by Rickon’s pallet. Even then Shireen has to snap at her to sit down lest she bleed out from the hastily stitched wounds she received when she and Shireen refused to linger behind after her new husband slipped out into the massacre.

It has been mere hours since Stane’s botched attempt to overtake Magnar, but Shireen thinks it could be a lifetime. She is beyond exhausted, heartbroken, still stunned from how many she was able to take down with her knife, still reeling from the terror of finding Rickon in a fight to the death. But after he retches and she wipes his face, he opens his eyes, a mystifying smile on mouth.

“You did it. I told you you’d do it,” he croaks, wincing when he tries to raise his injured hand to her face.

“Did what, love?” she asks with a frown, petting his cheek. There is scruff there, and she thinks how strange it is that a man’s beard will grow even in the midst of so much horror. She thinks of the babe then, and thanks the old gods for watching over them all.

“I knew you could. I always knew you could. Shells in your hair, killing men with your own hands, queen of my heart. Shireen, queen of Skagos.” 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is essentially the wrap up of Skagosi. Next chapter is the last, and will be more of an epilogue as it will have a few time jumps, and will consist of little glimpses into life at Skagos and Winterfell as time goes on.

He has been in King’s Landing for a week, because the busy would-be queen has far bigger issues to deal with than the freedom of Stannis Baratheon and Davos Seaworthy. More than half the realm had turned for Stannis, and now there is unrest, confusion, and not a little fear of the mother of dragons. She brings with her a Prince Consort, Aegon Targaryen, as well, and the reemergence of two Targaryens has caused nearly all of Westeros to hold their collective breath; Dorne, however, seems unconcerned and unsurprised, but that doesn’t surprise many.

These are all the whisperings he and his men have heard during their stay in the Red Keep. Luckily he has seen no dragons, nor does he intend to, but their presence is well known to anyone who spends more than a few moments in the presence of Ghost. His wolf is on tenterhooks, overly possessive, snappish, and it only underlines to Jon his desire to finish his business and get far from here. So he is hopeful now, sitting at a table in the queen’s solar across from her and Aegon. She is reading his letter, Howland Reed’s letter, and has been sitting there in silence, staring at it. He can tell when she inhales and her eyes flick back up to the top of the scroll that she finds this hard to believe, and must read it again to let the words and the truth and the shock sink in.

He gives her all the time in the world, though if he allowed it of himself, he would be drumming his fingers on the ornately carved wooden arm rests of the high backed chair in which he sits. He does afford himself a glance out the window, wishing it were open to the cool winds outside; though it is winter here as well, as it is from the Wall to the shattered arm of Dorne, this is by far the balmiest winter _he’s_ ever experienced, and he sweats in his blacks, though he has shed all but the thinnest layers. There is only a fine layer of snow outside, one that melts beneath his boots when he walks outdoors for fresh air, and it makes him and his men laugh to see the men and women in the castle huddling under cloaks and sitting with blankets over their knees when they eat their meals.

“Rhaegar’s son, then,” Daenerys murmurs at last, holding the scroll open with one hand as she traces the letters written there with her delicate fingers. _Those are the fingers that command dragons as she sits their backs,_ he thinks with wonder. Aegon extends his hand to ask for the missive and she complies, sitting back with a sigh and at last lifting her violet eyes to rest them on Jon. She is beautiful, and so small considering the forces she wields in the bodies of the creatures she calls her children, and he finds it uncomfortable, here under her gaze.

“Aye, Your Grace, it would appear as such,” he replies.

“And, what, you come here to lay claim to the throne? Targaryen or not, you are a- you are not trueborn,” she says, hastily covering the less kind phrasing of his origins. Jon widens his eyes and laughs before he can help himself, and that makes her narrow her eyes.

“Your Grace, I have no such intention, whatsoever. I am _very_ aware that no matter what last name I cannot have, I am a bastard. I fully intend to return to the Wall just as soon as we conclude this meeting, just as soon as I have made my plea.”

“You are half a Stark, the House who sided with the Usurper, and you would ask a favor of _me_?” She says, a smile playing sweetly on her lips though he knows that smile has naught to do with her words. It is a polite thing, a courtly thing, and so it is empty save for lies. He has lit her anger, her irritation, but then, so she has done to his.

“It was a Stark who kept me alive, who protected _Rhaegar’s_ child as much as my mother’s. It was a Stark who urged the Usurper to keep you alive in the Dothraki sea,” he says, an edge to his voice, for word of his father’s – _uncle’s –_ good deeds have spread, long after Eddard’s name was tainted, and the name no longer carries the weight of traitor. “It was Starks who were tortured and killed by your father, Your Grace, yet it is Starks now who would keep peace for you in the North, so long as they are renamed Warden there. That is all the North wants, and all _I_ want is to take Stannis Baratheon and Ser Davos to the Wall so they may put their lives to some use instead of rotting away in a dungeon.”

“He claimed to be king,” Aegon says forcefully. Jon looks at him, and he too is beautiful; _they will be aunt and nephew and yet they are wed,_ he thinks with mild distaste. Suddenly their beauty is not so much captivating as it is off-putting. “We cannot just let that _slide_ , Lord Commander. We would be overrun with others just like him.”

“He believed the throne was his by rights, after the death of his brother and the knowledge that Robert’s children were not really his. No one else has such a claim. You can show him the mercy my fa- my uncle was robbed of by the Lannisters, and send him to the Wall. That will ease the people, to see you forgive past discretions, when they didn’t even know you _existed._ You come here with dragons, with fire and blood, and you will not win the love of a people that way when they have been through so much war. Mercy would become you both better than spite and vengeance,” Jon says, and suddenly he feels so _tired._

“Why is this man so important to you?” Daenerys asks with a shake of her head, as if the idea of camaraderie confuses her so. Jon shrugs.

“We fought together once. You don’t leave men behind when you’ve fought side by side with them, do you, Your Grace?” He asks, and she and Aegon exchange a silent glance.

“No, I suppose you do not,” she murmurs, thoughtful and amused and he can see the wheels turning, in her head, behind those lilac eyes. “Give us time, Lord Commander, to discuss this in private. I will have word sent to your ship, will have them prepare to sail tomorrow, but we will send word to you of our decision beofrehand. I know you are a busy man with duties of your own, in the North, and we shall not keep you from them any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Jon stands and bows. He gives them a final glance before taking his leave, and they have their silver-haired heads bent together, the scroll held in Aegon’s hand between them, and whether it is more a token of peace or a weapon of war, Jon has not a clue.

 

In these few weeks after their wedding, to say life has been an upheaval would be putting it lightly, and this is the first time Rickon has truly felt comfortable leaving Shireen in the castle to go hunting, to visit the small villages in the trees below the high crags of their home, to let Shaggydog streak down the beaches, sand as dark as his fur, to give himself some peace after the attempted overthrow and the subsequent strike back against the now defunct House Stane.

Word swept through the island quickly enough, considering its disorderly ways, how it was Shireen Stark who, with child and on her wedding day, slayed Zur Stane with a single throw of her blade, and she is something of a mystery and heroine now, here where such an act is seen as just and well deserving, likely even amongst the lesser Houses who once were loyal to the Stanes. They have come in droves these past several days, to pledge faith and fealty to Kingshouse of House Stark, and though he misses Tor dearly, there is an odd, albeit sweet taste of justice to Rickon that at last Skagos bends the knee to Starks and as an extension to Winterfell, as they should have all this while, instead of to themselves.

Word swept over in other more mysterious ways as well; he received a raven from Winterfell, oddly enough, days after the attack, from his sister Arya, and had to hastily reply to assure her all was well. She had dreams, she wrote, terrible dreams of bloodstains and screaming, of wolf howls and blood soaked jaws, and he wonders, not for the first time, what it is about these direwolves of theirs, and how they connect them all to one another.

It is a wet, bone numbing day, even down here by the sea, which is ever tumultuous, frothing waves crashing against the rocky beach, but he stands in the midst of it, rain sliding down his soaked neck and beneath his cloak and furs, plastering his hair to his brow as he watches his direwolf, either unaware or uncaring of the weather, as he snaps at the sea foam, as playful as a pup though he is older than Rickon would care to admit. It is a wet, bone numbing day, yes, but there is a salty freshness to it, a clean start, something in the air that he can feel even in his blood. It will be a good day and a better year; he still cannot feel the babe in his wife’s belly but it is this year that he or she will be born, and he will feel what it is like to wear the weight of fatherhood.

He kicks Grey Wind into a canter and whistles for Shaggydog when the blacker clouds come sweeping in, black as the Night’s Watch from whence they come, and together they pick their way up the goat’s path between two steep, jutting stone-covered folds in the skirt of the foothills back upwards to Kingshouse, and though he intended to hunt, it is simply too wet, too rainy to ferret out anything hidden beneath shrubs or deep within narrow caves. Still, it does nothing to hamper his mood, and despite being a soaked, shivering mess when he finally leaves his poor horse in his stall with a handful of village boys to tend to him, he is all smiles when he enters the hall, even more delighted when he sees Shireen sitting at the high table where Tor once sat. _My queen,_ he thinks happily, and is about to call her such when she lifts her face and he sees the darkness there.

She looks more regal these days than even when she could call herself princess, she has come so far into her own here. The heels of her boots click with authority when she strides down the halls, shoulders back, hair done up with silver now as well as shells, and firelight catches the coils of metal when she turns her head this way and that, as if fallen stars have melted there. But now she sits with her arms around herself in a protective, no, a defensive pose, as if she guards herself from an eminent threat.

“What’s happened to make you so upset, Shireen?” He asks her, pausing before her as if he were here to bend the knee, and she looks so stormy he briefly considers it. He has been husband for a mere few weeks, but he knows this sort of look, and so he stands there in uneasy anticipation, shaking the rain from his hair before he peels off the drenched fur and cloaks.

“You have been keeping something from me,” she states simply, tossing an opened, unrolled piece of parchment that clearly came from round a raven’s leg. He racks his brains for a reason, it has been so long, but then realization dawns on him, and his eyes fall to the parchment. He nods.

“Yes, I have,” he says simply, turning sideways from her to drape his wet clothing over the backs of several chairs that are closest to the hearth. “But I had my reasons.”

“I knew it,” she says, and he turns back to her, surprised to hear such bitterness in her voice. “I knew you were hiding something when I read over your shoulder that day, something about Jon Snow, but I had no idea it was about _this,_ ” she says, pushing the parchment towards him when he approaches.

“You read that part? You didn’t tell me you read that part,” he says, half accusingly, sounding for all in the world like a sullen little boy.

“I didn’t mean to,” she snaps, her arms unfolding as she sits forward. He drags a chair from another table and pulls it to where she is seated, and sits in front of her, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I read faster than you, and besides, you needed my help with the pronunciation.” He wants to smile to hear the defensiveness in her voice.

“Shireen,” he says softly. “What does it say?”

“What?” He juts his chin out and nods with it towards the paper between them.

“That. What does that say?”

“Oh. Well,” she mumbles, and suddenly tears are in her eyes and she ducks her head. “My- it’s about my father and Davos,” she says, and there is a sudden hitch in her breath before the tears fall in earnest. “They- She has released them, and they sail with the Night’s Watch up to the Wall, where he is to serve.”

Rickon feels a rush of relief, so heady and sudden that he is lightheaded and dizzy, though he smiles despite the uneasy feeling and the drop of his stomach, as if he is falling some great distance. _It worked,_ he thinks. _We saved her father._ Still she cries, and so he stands and moves around the table towards her, squatting down on his haunches beside her chair. She is reluctant to turn towards him, he can tell, so he waits a few beats before sliding a hand under the armrest of her chair and into her lap where it finds her own hands, clasped and wringing. “Shireen, that’s a good thing. That’s- that’s what the message was about from before, about Jon Snow. That’s what Howland’s letter was about. Jon is a Targaryen, not my brother after all but my cousin, and he used that connection to free your father. That’s everything I’ve kept secret, but I hope you know why I kept it.”

“You didn’t trust me,” She says with a bite to her voice, lifting her head and her eyes skyward as she brushes her fingers across her cheeks to wipe away the tears. He’d kiss them if she’d let him but he thinks this, perhaps, is not the right time for such poetic gestures.

“Not that, it’s not that at all. I did not want to give you false hope. Even then, the possibility of hurting you was too much to bear. I could not tell you we were trying to save him if it didn’t work in the end.”

“You could have told me, Rickon, you shouldn’t keep these things from me,” she says, her sea-storm eyes looking at him searchingly.

“You kept a secret of your own, Shireen,” he says, tipping his head towards the parchment. “You kept knowledge from me just as I did you, and now you’re reading my letters,” he smiles, and she chuckles despite herself.

“Then no more secrets, husband. Not when we are wed, not when we have a household to run,” she says. He shakes his head solemnly and stands to sit on the table before her, a foot on the floor by her chair and a leg hitched up on the tabletop in front of her.

“No more secrets,” he says, leaning down to grasp her hands and pull her up to stand before him. She complies and he draws her close, arms sliding around her waist. She kisses him, her lithe arms already sliding up over his shoulders, their weight a familiar, welcome thing, and he wonders how long it will be until they can no longer kiss like this, bodies flush, until the babe between them grows large enough for him to feel it move.

“You saved him, Rickon,” she whispers some moments later, resting her forehead against his. “You saved my father.”

“All I did was try,” he murmurs, a hand in her hair, fingers dragging through the unbound length of it. Osha walks in from the keep and freezes in the doorway, and he jerks his head imperceptibly to the side. She covers her mouth with her hand and skitters out of the hall, down a darkened hallway. “I’d try anything to make you happy.”

“Me too,” she whispers, and Rickon smiles, closes his eyes. It is a wet, bone numbing day outside, but there is a salty freshness to it, a clean start, something in the air that he can feel even in his blood. It will be a good day and a better year.

 

“I never before would have thought we’d be standing here, side by side, happy as kittens together watching our husbands at swordplay in Winterfell’s yard,” Sansa says with a smile. They are high up in the armory bridge where the walls and roof keep them warm, gazing down into the yard through the window. Nymeria lies behind them, a great, contented stretch of wolf, tongue lolling lazily from the side of her mouth; they both of them are tamer for each other’s presence, to be within these walls once more. Arya rolls her eyes, but she smiles all the same.

“Our _men_. I am not wed, and I do not think I will be, ever. Gendry and I are happy as we are. I need no cloak.”

“Men, then,” Sansa says, nudging her with an elbow. “Though you are essentially wed, the way you two carry on. You make Sandor and I look like a septon and septa, the way you are about each other.”

Arya can do nothing but grin and shrug, because what her sister says isn’t wrong, but neither is she ashamed or planning on stopping anytime soon. This is the first time since she was a child that she feels free. She has been faceless, nameless, but never this free to simply be _Arya,_ with all the whims and wants and motivations that are hers and hers alone. She will not hide them, will not tamp them down, not anymore.

They watch Sandor teach Gendry how to wield a sword as well as he can weld them, and while he has learned much since their days together with the brotherhood, he is still no match for her sister’s husband. _My goodbrother,_ she thinks with a slight shake of her head. Her sister has detailed how she and Sandor fell into one another, but it is still a hard, hard thing for her to wrap her mind around. No matter how many years he spent on the Quiet Isle, no matter how long dead and gone the Hound is, she still sees glimpses of him in the training yard or when he barks orders as the Lord of Winterfell.

At last there is a moment where Gendry sidesteps and thrusts forward in a way that neither Arya nor Sandor expected, for he slaps the dulled edge of the blade against Sandor’s leathered shoulder and the larger man starts in surprise, and even Arya’s eyes widen.

“A point to Gendry!” She exclaims as Sansa _tsks_ and rolls her eyes, folding her arms across her chest, and her older sister takes it well as Arya flaunts her man’s triumph. But she is not long at her games until maester Sam comes scurrying out of his tower, the blacks of the Night’s Watch flapping behind him, and despite his kindness, despite how helpful he has been in trying to help with his herbs to get Sansa with child, Arya cannot help think of some fat, flightless bird, and she suppresses a laugh with a hand to her mouth.

“Stop it,” Sansa chides her, though the fact that she knows what Arya laughs about is indicative enough of her own thoughts. They watch as Sam hands Sandor a parchment, as Sandor stabs his sword into a nearby bale of hay and unrolls it. He reads it, holds it out slightly so Gendry can peer down at it, and then as one they turn and lift their heads, staring right up at the window through which the sisters watch _them._ Arya and Sansa step backwards and away from the window, laughing.

“We’ve been found out,” Sansa laughs, and then she must remember herself as Lady Stark, for she composes herself and steps back in front of the window and waves nonchalantly, as if she has not been caught spying on her love.

Sandor lifts his hand to her, but in a beckoning, not a wave, and Sansa and Arya exchange a glance. _Dark wings, dark words,_ Arya thinks, unbidden, and it makes her stomach flip flop. Without another word she and her sister hurry across the bridge and down the steps, Nymeria bounding down them in the lead, and her great wolf head shoves open the door when Arya unlatches it.

The wolf makes a beeline for Gendry, who is ready for her, his arm already outstretched so she can lope beneath his open palm, and she circles around the three men who stand, waiting for the women of Winterfell to approach them. Arya is still nervous, perhaps frightened though she’d not admit it, to hear what words come to them from gods know what corner of the world.

“My Lady,” maester Sam says, bowing his head slightly out of respect, though he is more friend than servant here.

“Out with it,” Arya says, folding her arms across her chest, speaking over Sansa. She must be as impatient to hear, however, for there is no chastisement for her rudeness. Sana simply looks at Sam, and damn him if his expression betrays nothing of what missive is still in Sandor’s hand.

“I- well, I- there has been a raven, from King’s Landing. From the queen. Queen Dae-”

“Please, Sam, tell me, what does it say?”

“House Stark has been reinstated as Wardens in the North,” Sandor says, interrupting the stammering of their maester. “Specifically _you_ are Warden,” he explains, walking towards his wife to stand by her side, to hand her the still furled parchment, her hand a small, slender white thing against his large, gloved one. There is a rare smile from him as she looks up at him in bemused wonder, and to see it makes Arya smile, makes her understand maybe, just a little bit, this mysterious love between them. “It’s just as I told you, little bird. Starks will always be the true Wardens, here.”

“You’re a Stark as well,” she smiles, gazing down with dazed happiness to the scroll.

“Aye, but not as much as you, my lady,” he murmurs.

Gendry comes to stand beside her, and Arya slips her arm around his waist, her head a perfect fit against his chest, just under his shoulder. His body is warm from physical activity, and it stirs her, makes her hungry, makes her wish for privacy.

“Nice dress,” he says lightly, and she shoves her body against his, making him stagger slightly to the side, making him laugh.

“Sansa asked me to wear it,” she says by way of defense, looking up to him. He raises his eyebrows and chuckles.

“Since when do you do anything your sister asks?” He scoffs, lifting the arm around her to brush his fingers along her temple and into her loosely bound hair; its length fascinates him, his touch ignites her.

“Since I have one to listen to, again,” Arya replies, and he nods his understanding, and they both look at Sansa, standing tall beside her husband, the Lady and Lord Stark, restored at last as Wardens of the North, just as it should be, just as it will be, so long as there are Starks in Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a dork but feel I should mention that Lagertha from Vikings is my inspiration whenever I think of Shireen's hair being braided and adorned. A little of that badass edge to it that I love so much from Lagertha. :)


	21. Epilogue

“Come on, love, don’t give up, not now. You’ve worked too hard. Don’t quit on me.” He is pressed against the headboard of their bed, pillows forgotten and cast to the floor, his writhing wife between his raised legs, and she is screaming her lungs out. His hands are red and throbbing from when she squeezes them, as she struggles, no, as she _fights_ to push the babe out. Rickon does not care; if she wants to rip his hands off, he’d let her. Her black hair, soft and in waves at the start of her labor, now hangs in sweat soaked, limp curtains on either side of her face, and when she releases his hands in the ever-shortening moments of respite, he does his best to brush it from her eyes, to pull it away from her cheeks.

Shireen has had a tough labor, has spent the afternoon and evening pacing in agony around their rooms, but has finally, blessedly come to the part where she can push, and push she does. He feels her entire body tense with each push, feels the iron like vises of her arms when she wraps them around his thighs for support, feels the curve of her spine when she lurches upwards to bear down. He feels helpless, even now that he’s here, holding her; it was worse outside in the hallway where Osha had banished him, but her screams tortured him too much to just pace there, to do nothing. He feels largely useless, but every time she grabs his hands, hugs his legs, it makes him grimly pleased he told Osha to fuck off when she tried pushing him from the bed chamber.

“Ric,” she whimpers. “Ric, I can’t do this anymore,” she says with a weak sob, her head falling back against his collarbone, damp temple lolling against his jaw. Rickon closes his eyes in mute sympathy for her, his heart aching to hear the defeat in her voice, and he cranes his neck to kiss her cheek.

“Oh yes you can, little mother,” Osha says with authority from between Shireen’s bare feet. She has her hands braced on Shireen’s kneecaps, is peering down with intensity. “There’s its head now, with a thicket of dark hair. Must not be yours, Rickon,” she cracks, but Shireen is too exhausted to laugh, and Rickon is too concerned for his wife to even glare at her for the attempted jape.

“Just another push, my girl, just another one. That’s all you have to think about right now. Do it for me, for the babe. Think about the babe and push,” he murmurs, voice tight with emotion. He thinks fleetingly of his ignorance over what to do, all those many, many months ago, when Shireen cried on the kingsroad. They’ve come so far together, but once again, he is here with her, at a loss of how to help her. She told him then that sometimes just being there is enough, but he is not sure that it’s enough, not now, not in this moment. So he pours out his adoration. “I love you, Shireen, please. Stay here with me, do not give up. Not you, who names her horse Fury, who throws daggers as easily as if they were flowers, not you who bring men to their knees for loving you. Come on, love. Come on.”

It works, and she inhales with a sudden sharpness, and he feels once more how her entire body seems to tense in this biggest fight of fights, and grits his teeth when she screams out, screams so gutturally, voice ragged from use and exhaustion, that he can barely hear Osha cry out “Yes!” but then Shireen sags against him once more, and he hears his foster mother announce that the head is out, that the worst is over, just another push and the baby will be born.

“You said just one,” Shireen says, a little sparkle of fire to her voice, and he wants to laugh.

“One more then, and you can call me a liar when this is over,” Rickon whispers to her, kissing her hair, her temple, her cheek. “Come on.” She nods, chest heaving, licks her lips and takes another deep breath, exhaling it with a war cry that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, pushing with all her might, and then there is a baby born, Osha laughing triumphantly as she quickly catches the small little thing with a clean sheet.

“You did it, Shireen, you did it,” she murmurs, taking a fresh rag and wiping clean its face, and there is a most furious, thin and high little wail from the baby, that fills the room and his ears and his heart. Shireen’s exhaustion seems behind her for she struggles to sit, though Rickon holds her still.

“Let me see, let me see my baby,” she says, arms unwinding from around his thighs, hands outstretched for their child.

“Here’s your boy, then,” Osha smiles, passing the baby up into Shireen’s waiting arms, and Rickon can hardly register what she says, hardly registers that Osha is cleaning the mess of birth while they simply stare in fascination at the newest member of their family.

“A boy,” Shireen breathes, settling back against his chest, the wonder and awe and joy in her voice resounding perfectly to what is swelling in Rickon’s own heart, as he looks down over her shoulder at their son. “We have a little boy, Rickon,” she says, and it is not strange to him, not in the slightest, when he watches her push away her shift to bare a breast, when the baby’s cries end abruptly at the sight of it, latching on with the vigor of hunger. He has never felt so sure that anything could be so _right_ , in that moment, holding his wife who holds his son, and he is so captivated that he never notices when Osha slips from the room.

“A son,” he says, voice gruff with emotion, watching his boy nurse, and he lifts a tentative finger, his arm a protective half circle around Shireen and the baby, slipping it inside the curl of an impossibly tiny hand; his grip is so strong it startles Rickon, and he chuckles. “A good sword hand already, little man,” he says, and Shireen huffs a tired laugh.

“Already sending him to the battlefield, hmm?”

“Aye, since he was born on one, practically, given the way you fought. I’m- I don’t have the right to say it, Shireen, but gods, I’m proud of you. You astound me,” he says honestly. He manages to tear his eyes off his son when she lifts her head, turns to kiss him, and he kisses her back fiercely. _My wife, my son, my family. I have a family now. I am a father._

“What shall we name him? What do you want, Lady Stark, for our firstborn’s name?” He whispers.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she says with a smile, as they both look back to their babe. “Eddard, of course.”

 

 

Sandor finds Sansa seated before the heart tree, her skirts and cloak a pool of blue and emerald around her, as if she were a woman rising out of a small sea, reminding him of the times he’s taken her in the heated springs behind them, which pierces his heart in an altogether different way. He hesitates, knowing he must go to her, but also knowing the sorrow he will see will break his heart as it has every month. She did not tell him why she ran from their chambers not twenty minutes earlier, moments after dawn, but he knows; he saw the blood in the bed as plain as day, and knows that another month has gone by without a child being conceived or worse, a child being conceived and promptly lost.

“Sansa,” he says after crouching down, squatting on his haunches, behind her, lifting a heavy hand to rest it on her shoulder. Uncharacteristically she jerks her body away from the touch, startling him even though he understands grief will bloom differently in every body within which it finds a home, but then his little bird lifts her head and twists, hurling herself so forcefully in his arms that he falls back, arse down in the light dusting of snow. It matters not to him, and he sits obligingly, drawing her fully onto his outstretched legs and into his waiting arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.” She sobs uncontrollably as she does each month, as she did after three moons had come and gone and she was shining as bright as a star before the blood came, before her hopes were dashed like a ship against the rocks. He has thought about suggesting, as gently as a man like him can, that they perhaps stop trying for a baby, but she is determined. “I will have your children,” she tells him, voice firm, “I will put another Stark in Winterfell,” and so Sandor nods, and waits, and hopes against hope.

“I felt so blessed the day we got married, I felt so relieved to be _happy,_ like the gods themselves were smiling down on me, on us, that we would finally get a chance to be truly content, truly happy, but the gods are such fickle, cruel masters,” she says bitterly.

“Then why to the godswood, my girl? If the gods are so cruel,” he asks.

“I came here to curse them,” she spits, voice raised, and again he is taken aback by her reaction, by what sharp teeth her grief has, how they bite and gnaw and worry the words she speaks. “I came here to curse them for making me barren, but then the tears,” she says, unable to finish, unable to say how the tears drown out her anger every time it tries to take over.

“It could be me,” he says, heart heavy. This is the thing that has worried him since the start, how he is an old man, battered, torn up, that maybe the life he lived before, before The Hound died, has sapped him of his ability to get sons and daughters on a woman. That he has robbed himself of his chances, and as such has robbed her. “This could very well be my fault, little bird. I could be too old.”

“Tell that to the Freys,” she mumbles.

“I can’t, there aren’t any left,” he says simply, and for some reason that makes her laugh, a weak, thin chuckle, born and dying on his tunic.

“Well, I will thank the gods for _that_ at least,” she sighs, burrowing tighter against his chest.

“I’m not one for gods, but I don’t want you cursing yours, Sansa. It’s not like you and I know, later, you will regret it, and it will eat at you inside until you are filled with guilt. I don’t want that for you, little bird.”

“My mother had five children,” she says, sniffling against her sleeve, sighing as she lifts her head to his shoulder. “I would do anything, just for one. Just for one,” she repeats, closing her eyes, and they stay there, beneath the blood-red leaves of the weirwood, for how long he does not know, but he will not move until she’s ready.

 

 

She and Gendry are naked as they day they are born, in the hot pools of the godswood, the scene before them unfolding like a tragedy on a mummers stage. They rest on their elbows in the shallows, naught but their heads and shoulders above the surface of the water, torsos and legs stretched out below it and behind them, and Gendry has linked one of her ankles with his, though her toes rest along the back of his calf, his legs are that much longer than hers.

They watch with sorrowful eyes as her poor sister cries out all her pain and anguish, her sobs reaching their ears even clear across the wood, though at this distance they are the soft, echoing cries of a ghost. They did not intend to spy, but have been swimming and cavorting, loving each other in the hot water since before the sun rose, and did not want to disturb them by getting up, pulling clothes over wet skin in an embarrassed hurry, thinking it best instead to lie low, to wait them out, to give them this moment without interruption. Arya tips her head against the warm, wet cap of his shoulder and closes her eyes with a sigh.

“Poor Sansa,” she whispers. “She has wanted this for such a long, long time. _I’ll_ curse the bloody gods for her, if need be.”

“Aye, I know you would,” Gendry murmurs beside her. “Is there nothing she can try? No, er, women’s tricks or maester’s herbs?”

“She has tried them all,” Arya says knowingly. They have sat, Sansa and her, countless times going over all the different things she has tried. Half the time her sister is excited, buoyed by hope, ticking off all the helpful tricks, and the other time she has been a shadow of herself, sorrowful after another empty moon has passed, going over the list of failures.

“Perhaps it’s not meant to be,” he says, saying aloud what everyone at Winterfell thinks and knows. It makes her wonder if she’d ever have had children, had she not taken such permanent measures over in Braavos. It makes her sad, some days, but on days like today, mornings filled with so many tears and so much agony before breakfast is even served, it makes her sigh with relief, which she does.

“Perhaps it’s not,” she affirms, and then he pushes abruptly away from the line of snow covered grassline, deeper into the water.

“Get back, get down, they’re coming towards us,” he hisses, grabbing her arm and dragging her backwards, a soft little _Oh_ escaping at her before she does as he instructs. They creep backwards, crouching low in the water so now only their faces are above the water, and when Sandor and Sansa are at their nearest, her arm linked in his as always, head hung in sorrow as always these days, Gendry and Arya take mouthfuls of air and duck below the surface. Arya counts to forty, tapping the counts on his arm, before she stops and slowly lifts her head out of the water, eyes open and wary in case for some reason her sister and good-brother decided to linger, but they are safe.

“Well, that was just horrible,” she says. “Painful to watch and now, as selfish as it sounds, I feel rather like my day is ruined for the hurt and sadness of it all.”

“And we were having such fun,” he says behind her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She shrugs him away but then his arms are around her, beneath her breasts, and she cannot help herself, winding her arms over his, hugging him to her as much as he hugs her to his chest. He is impossible to resist, even after all these months together; he is tireless in his pleasing her, and no amount of sorrow can keep her from turning in his arms, from kissing him with an open, hungry mouth. Indeed, it is likely the sorrow that drives her there, for comfort, for the chance to forget, to feel nothing but love from him.

He is deep inside her, they are all wound up around each other, when he breaks the kiss that has stolen her breath and her soul away, and she opens her eyes, wants to ask why he stopped, why he didn’t just take all of her, when he speaks.

“I want a family,” he says, and it’s so abrupt, is nothing at all what she thought he’d say, that she stops her movement, stops the rising and falling of her hips, though the feel of him still inside her makes it hard to focus, even at the ridiculousness, near cruelty of what he says.

“I can’t- Gendry, you _know_ I can’t, that I can’t give you children,” she says, and she’s _hurt_ , that he would say such a thing, after witnessing Sansa’s pain in her inability, after slipping himself inside her, making love to her only to say something so heartless.

“No, I know,” he says, voice husky, and he moves inside her of his own accord, one long and shuddering thrust. “I want a family, Arya, the only one I want, the only one I can have. I want you,” he says, and she tightens her legs around his hips to try and make him stop moving.

“You have me. Literally and figuratively, at the moment,” she says with a snap, angry that he chooses now, of all times, to have this strange conversation.

“I want you to marry me,” he says, strong hands lifting her by her arse, bringing her down again on him, and she’s going to lose her mind, if he keeps toying with her like this, has lost half her wits already. Arya’s head drops back and she moans as he keeps it up, making her fuck him, making her move though she does nothing.

“You’re, you’re asking me, oh gods, please,” she gasps. “You’re asking me to marry you while you’re _in_ me?” This is ridiculous, this is madness.

“I figured it is the only way to get you to agree,” he says, a grin on his mouth, and how he can concentrate on this bloody conversation and still ruin her so perfectly, she will never know.

“I, oh,” she says, stupid from want, and she brings her head up and over his shoulder, clinging to him, teeth against his shoulder, nails digging into his back, and finally he grunts, groans out her name, emits _some_ show of losing control as they move together now, frantic. “Yes,” she says, “yes, please, yes.”

“Yes to this,” he asks, pausing when he is buried inside her, pressing her so achingly hard against his body, making her squirm in delicious agony. “Or yes to marrying me?”

“Yes to everything,” she says. “Yes to you, to this, forever this, forever you. Yes, Gendry, yes. Please, yes, Gendry,” she cries, and when they come together seconds later, stars against her eyes even though they are squeezed shut, when she shakes like a leaf in his arms from the pleasure, from the words, from the weight and meaning of them, Arya wishes he would ask her to marry him every time.

 

 

He walks in with Eddard at his heels, and Shireen looks up with a smile from where she sits, aching feet outstretched towards the fire that crackles and snaps with merry brightness from the hearth in their solar. He is a tall man, but looks all the taller for the little boy who trots by his side, though she is relatively certain that little Ned will be as tall as his father, built like him too despite all the Baratheon features he may have. He’s a tall boy for five, legs as long as a colt’s. His blue eyes are bright and black hair whipped into stiff peaks and spikes from the wild winds, winds that blow with a vengeance no matter how many years they are into spring.

“We’ve a raven,” her husband grins, holding up the roll of parchment, every bit as handsome as the day she fell in love with him on the kingsroad, looking every bit as young, too, whenever he decides to shave his short beard, as he has today.

“Oh? Go to your father, Steffon, and fetch me that scroll,” she says to their youngest, a boy with hair as red as his father’s, eyes as green as Shaggy’s, though brighter than the old wolf’s, these days. The three year old scrambles up from the wooden soldiers he plays with so seriously and runs pell-mell for his father, who sweeps him up with strong arms, plopping him atop his shoulders as if the sturdy child weighed no more than a kitten.

“I’ll give it you myself, my lady,” Rickon says, entering the room fully behind Ned, who has already helped himself to an entire wedge of sharp cheese that sits beside her. Rickon cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. “That’s your mother’s lunch, son, not yours. Go find Osha, she’ll set you to rights in the hall.” Eddard does as asked but runs away with the cheese in his hand. “Or in the stables with the other pigs!” Rickon shouts after him, and his words are met with the wild laughter of a child who has gotten away with something.

He removes Steffon from his shoulders and sets him down. “Go on, you wee beastie, follow your brother and get some food for yourself.” Shireen smiles when he crouches beside her chair, and she leans forward to kiss him but he stays her movement with a light, careful hand to her belly. “Sit, woman. I’ll come get my gift,” he grins, sliding forward on his knees between her legs, draping himself lightly over her to kiss her. _It is gestures like this, ways that he touches me such as this, ways he kisses me so that my heart nearly stops,_ she thinks, _these are why I’m with our third child. I’ll have ten more before I have sense to stop him._

“Get off of me,” she laughs when he starts making purring, growling noises, nuzzling his face between her hair and her throat. “You said we have a raven,” she reminds him, and up he pops, face lit up like a boy’s.

“We _do_ have a raven,” he says, handing her the paper, sitting back on his heels as she reads it, and she gasps with pleasure. There have been ravens and letters between Winterfell and Kingshouse, words between Sansa and she, and Shireen is well aware of Sansa and Sandor’s struggles, but this note carries news of unfathomable joy.

“She’s pregnant,” Shireen whispers, and Rickon nods, slapping his thighs with his hands before unfolding his legs and getting to his feet.

“She is, far along, too, with every sign that the babe will be a healthy one.”

“She wants us to come for his first nameday celebration,” she reads as Rickon pours them both wine. She sips hers, sighs, sets it down.

“Aye, she does, and I reckon little Stark in there will be old enough to travel by then,” he says, referring the babe who will be born, if she has judged correctly, in little more than three months. “Oh, I almost forgot. Unfold the paper,” he says, and she looks up at him to see him grinning like a boy, as naughty as his own children. She narrows her eyes at him and frowns, but does so, not having realized before that the paper was folded, but it was, and she reads the previously hidden words. She gasps.

“Rickon!” she says so loud it’s nearly a shout. For there, in Sansa’s elegant hand, it says that her father and Davos have already been asked, will be there in hopes to see her. “I haven’t seen him since they sailed up to the Watch,” she says fondly, tears in her eyes.

“A right and proper reunion, for both our families,” he says.

 

 

Stannis has been a bundle of nerves like Davos has never seen before. When the horns blasted, announcing the appearance of Lord Rickon and Lady Shireen Stark riding south on the kingsroad, his former king, now brother of the Night’s Watch, stood up without a word from the table in the hall, where they were breaking their fast, and strode out. Davos swept up and away after him, curiosity impossible to resist, and found him on his way to the northern wall of the castle, upon which they both stand, all the better to see them when they arrive.

When they do, Davos’s face breaks into a wide smile, and he glances to Stannis, whose jaw is working as if he chewed on something, and his knuckles are white where he grips the stone wall. _Ah,_ Davos thinks with a small smile. _He is fighting back his tears. So be it, I will weep them for him, when I can hug her once more._ There are three horses approaching, one roan, one gray, and one fat little white pony, upon which sits a little boy. _He rides well, for such a small lad,_ Davos thinks. He squints, can make out another child sitting before a tall man, a man Davos remembers well even though he last saw him in the black of night all those years ago. Rickon Stark has his arms about his child, and as they come closer he can see that he lets his child hold the reins.

Having confirmed all this with his eyes, he inhales and sends his gaze to the other horse, upon which a woman rides. They are close enough now, that he sees her hair braided up, twisted up, tied up, and there are trinkets there that wink and blink in the sunlight that shines down. She bows her head, looking down at something, and Davos gasps; he did not notice it at first, but there is another child, a baby by the looks of it, swaddled and slung across her body. Someone, her husband or one of her children, must say something funny, for at that moment Shireen throws her head back and laughs, an arm around her babe though it is tied snug enough to her, the reins held lightly, confidently in her other hand.

“She looks beautiful,” Stannis whispers, and Davos looks to him, smiles to see the tears coursing down the cheeks of the once and would-be king of Westeros. He must wipe his cheeks as well, does so with the palms of his hands. He looks back to Shireen. “Though she looks like a wildling.”

“She looks like a Skagosi,” Davos points out.

“A queen,” Stannis corrects. “A wildling queen, a Skagosi queen.” And Davos can only agree with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who stuck with this, who read and who commented. I love every single one of you, loved all the comments, and am just so grateful for you all. KISSES AND HUGS AND SLOBBER ETC.


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